


A Guide to Recovering from Psychopaths

by acme146



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Detective Work, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everybody Gets a Hug, Falling In Love, Forgiveness, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Future Relationships, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlockary Endgame, Kittens, Moriarty is Alive, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Season/Series 03 AU, Recovery, Redemption, Ridiculous Maths, Slow Burn, not series 4 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2020-12-23 21:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 79,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21087959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acme146/pseuds/acme146
Summary: Series 3 Spoilers.Moriarty's return throws everyone's world into chaos. Coming together as a group is one thing--everyone from Janine to Molly are used to fighting. But coming together as hurt people, people who've hurt each other, people who are trying to forgive, people who are discovering and naming new feelings--well. That's going to take more work. But they're the Baker Street Irregulars, and no amount of psychopaths is going to stop them from finding forgiveness, friendship, and even old (and new) love. There’s going to be dancing, maths, blackmail, a feline romance, so many whiteboards, and in the end there will be justice. What that's going to look like...well, there's no one path to recovery.





	1. Prologue: November

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, welcome! This is the culmination of over a year's work, and I'm so pleased it's ready to share. Welcome to _ A Guide to Recovering from Psychopaths _.

“Janine?”

  
It was John Watson walking towards her on that chilly November day. He had bags under his eyes and his mouth was grim.   
Janine imagined she looked rather the same. She’d lost seven pounds since Sherlock was shot, so her face was even narrower than usual, and she wasn’t dressed to her usual standard. Magnussen was furious. She didn’t care.

  
“Can I buy you a coffee?” John asked.

  
Janine nodded, even though she wasn’t sure about it. Was John going to defend his friend to her, or his wife?

  
As it turned out, neither. The moment they sat down, John blurted out, “I’m sorry, Janine. So damn sorry. I had no idea, please believe me.”

  
Janine nodded. “I believe you. And it wasn’t your fault. I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. I knew her. Well, I thought I knew her.”

  
John winced. “I was talking about Sherlock, actually. What he did…he does that a lot.”

  
“Oh.” You don’t care, you don’t care… “He often fakes relationships for cases, then?”

  
“No, no—at least I don’t think so. I—sorry. I’m not making much sense.” John rubbed his face. “It’s been a lot.”

  
They sat in silence for a minute, surrounded by other people who had no idea what was happening in their lives. Janine was used to it, but John clearly wasn’t.

  
“Sherlock isn’t very emotion-literate,” John said at last. “He’s always three steps ahead of people, so he forgets that people are playing catch-up with his plans, let alone how they feel about them. He’s done it to me more than once. But Janine…I don’t know if this helps at all, but he does care about you. He wasn’t faking that.”

  
“I know,” Janine said simply. “We were friends before…before he was ever interested in Magnussen. That would have been the beginning of September, right?”

  
“Suppose so. I didn’t see him for a month, and he told me he was undercover that entire time.”

  
“Do you believe that?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“How do you trust him at all?” Janine asked. “I’m not criticizing, mind. I just don’t know how you do it.” She hadn’t trusted anyone since she was nineteen, fresh to her job with Magnussen, never dreaming what she was getting into.

  
John sighed. “I don’t know, really. I’ve always had trouble with that—trusting people. But with him, there isn’t anything out of character. Everything he does is logical in the end, and I can trust that. He’s dependable in that way. And when he is honest, you can tell. And he did—does, care about you.”

  
“I just wish he’d been honest with me,” Janine muttered. “I would have helped, you know. I would have done whatever you needed to bring Magnussen down.” She pulled at her sleeve.

  
“Are you safe?” John asked. There was a dark worry in his voice.

  
“Not really,” Janine admitted. “But no one is with Magnussen. I’m important to him; I’ve been with him for fifteen years, and he trusts me. He thinks I won’t hurt him.”

  
“Has he—” John looked around. “Has he got anything on you?”

  
“Nothing. I just know too much. Apparently not everything.” Janine let out a shuddering sigh. “You probably don’t want to talk about her.”

  
John looked down. “No, I don’t. But—but I have to.”

  
Janine was startled by the desperation in his voice. “What do you mean?”

  
“I can’t just—she’s my fucking wife. And I can’t tell anyone, anyone about what’s really going on, and the only people who know the whole story are Mrs. Hudson, who just bursts into tears, and Sherlock, who’s in hospital—”

  
“Come on.” Janine grabbed her coffee cup. “We’re going for a walk.”

  
She led John away from the busy street, walking as fast as she could. John kept pace with her easily.

  
“I should be happy right now,” John said at last. “My best friend is alive, I’m married, I have two jobs that I love, and I’m going to—I’m going to be a father. I never thought that could be possible, and instead I’m…”

  
“Walking like mad down the streets of London,” Janine supplied. “I can’t imagine what this is like for you.”

  
“It can’t be easy for you either.”

  
“No. No it’s not.” Janine sighed. “I met Mary—fuck, is that even her name?”

  
A shudder went through John, and he quickened his stride. “I don’t know.”

  
“I met her in the lobby of…of where I work. She was applying for a job, or at least that’s what she said. She must have been waiting for someone to come out of Magnussen’s elevator. Someone like me.” The week before her thirtieth birthday, disillusioned, missing Thea, her cheeks sore…she must have looked perfect.

  
“This isn’t your fault, Janine.”

  
That made Janine stop in her tracks. “Why did you say that?”   
John stopped too. “Because I know what it’s like to be…chosen. Hell, I met her at the graveyard. She was putting flowers on what she said were her parents’ grave. And I just needed someone to talk to.” He shook his head. “You know, Sherlock said that I saw her past, her danger, and that’s why I was drawn to her. She agreed with him. But they’re wrong. I was drawn to Sherlock because of danger. Her…I saw understanding. How grief could force its way into your life and never leave, how you have to keep battling every day. How tiring that becomes. I told her everything, you know. Everything I could think of, the night after she accepted my proposal. I told her things I’ve never told Sherlock.”

  
Janine nodded. “I trusted her too. She just seemed so…untouched by the rest of my life. Magnussen never said a word about her, there were none of his little hints. I was so excited to have a—a real friend. I suppose he was just waiting for the right moment.”

  
It was getting darker, and the wind whipped through Janine’s hair. She wrapped her arm around herself, drinking what remained of her coffee.

  
“So what do we do?” John asked at last.

  
“I suppose I’ll work on trying to forgive her,” Janine said dully. “God knows I’ve kept enough secrets from people. What about you? I suppose you have—have the—”

  
“Our baby? Yeah, I suppose we’ll work something out before she’s born.”

  
“She?”

  
“Yeah. It’s a girl.”

  
Janine put her arms around John. “Congratulations, John. I am really happy for you. No matter what you decide in the end, you’ll have a baby. A daughter. That means something.”

  
“She’s all I’m holding onto right now,” John said. He leant his cheek against Janine’s shoulder. “I want to; I love Mary, I made a vow, I just don’t know if—if it’s worth it.”   
Janine felt him shudder, and knew that he was worried about the same thing she was. “You’re not sure if she ever loved you for real?”

  
John didn’t speak, he just shuddered again.

  
“Why don’t you ask Sherlock?” Janine asked. “Couldn’t he tell you how she feels?”

“I don’t want to ask.”

“Because he missed her before?”

  
“No.” John pulled away. “I don’t think…what if he lies to me?”

  
Janine took his hand. “Like you said John, he’s a logical man. If I take comfort from that, then you need to as well. Would he lie to you if he thought Mary wasn’t worth it? It would be logical to get you the hell away from her if he didn’t.”

  
John nodded, one tight jerk of his head. “You’re right. I’ll…I’ll talk to him.”

  
“Good. Whatever happens, I’m here for you.” Janine hugged him again. “I am your friend, John. I like you because you’re funny and you work so hard at doing the right thing. Also I want to steal your recipes.”

  
That did make John laugh. “You got the one for risotto, right?”

  
“Yes. Excellent. I’m still waiting for the chocolate shortbread biscuits.”

  
“I’ll email you when I get home.” John’s smile was weak, but he patted Janine’s hand. “Keep your chin up, okay? We’ll get you out of there somehow, I promise.”

  
“Where are you going now?” Janine asked.

John raised a hand, and a cab drew up. “Going to visit Sherlock,” he said. “I’m going to ask him.”

  
“Good for you. Tell him I’ll drop by tomorrow. I need to work late tonight.”

  
John paused. “You have my number?”

  
“I do.” Janine smiled. “Carry on, soldier. We’ll get through this.”

  
Somehow.

  
She didn’t want to lie to John. 


	2. Forgotten Manners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 3rd, 2015.   
Janine sees the news, and makes two calls.

_ Did you miss me? _

  
Janine’s attention snapped to the television screen. A face she recognized was there—Moriarty, saying the same thing over and over again.

  
_Did you miss me?_

  
Janine had never met Moriarty in person, but if Magnussen told her to clear his schedule and go to lunch early, she knew he was coming. Somehow he was scarier than Magnussen. She saw her boss every day, knew how he liked his coffee, that he needed soft music on hard days, and that he paid exceptionally well. He was also exceptionally dangerous, and he was afraid of Moriarty.

  
_Did you miss me? _

  
Janine buried her face in her hands. No, she bloody well hadn’t.

  
Her hands didn’t tremble as she reached for her phone, and her eyes stayed dry as she dialed.

  
“John?”

  
“Hullo Janine.” John sounded out of breath, and there was a note in his voice that spoke of wounds rubbed raw. “Holy fuck, you’re seeing it too?”

  
“Yes. It’s…is it real, or some kind of joke?”

“Well, they’re bringing—” John raised his voice over the roar of an engine. “They’re bringing Sherlock back, the plane’s landing now. So it’s—it’s probably real. Fucking hell…”

  
“What can I do?” Janine asked. “I want to help.”

  
“I—actually, no there is something you could do.”

  
“Sure.”

  
“Can you ring Molly Hooper?”

  
“Was that the lady with the yellow bow at your wedding?”

  
“Yes, that’s her.” Good, that took some of the pain out of his voice. “Ring her and tell her we’re coming to St. Bart’s; there’s a few other people I need to call immediately. I’ll give you her number.”

  
Janine wrote the digits on her palm from habit. “Shall I join you there?”

  
John didn’t answer.

  
“John, I want to help. My nightmare’s dead. Yours seems to be on the move, and who knows what he’s planning?”

  
“I know. That’s why I don’t want you in it.”

  
“I already am. Look, I’m a big girl, and this won’t get in the way of my plan overmuch.”

  
“Your plan?”

  
“Yeah. Sell my stock, go to my cottage in Sussex and shag someone who I actually like for once. After that, I’m going to write a novel.”

  
“Sounds like a good plan. Alright, Janine. Phone Molly, and I’ll see you soon.” 

“Be careful on the way there, John.” 

“Same to you. Bye.” 

Janine hung up and immediately dialed the number on her palm. 

It picked up after three rings. “Who is this?” The woman’s voice was tense. “Jim, if it’s you, fuck off—” 

“No, no,” Janine said quickly. “It’s me, Janine. I was at John and Mary’s wedding.” 

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know the number. Can I help you?” 

“John Watson wanted me to tell you that they’re headed to St. Bart’s.” Janine paused. “I’m not quite sure who else will be coming other than John and Mary and Sherlock, but he said he had other people to call.” 

“I’ve already gotten a text from Mycroft, so he’s on his way.” Molly let out a long, deep sigh. “I don’t believe this.” 

“I don’t want to either,” Janine said. “Is Jim—is that Moriarty?” 

“Yes. It’s a long story. I don’t really want—” 

“Oh trust me Molls, I was Magnussen’s P.A. I know all about horrible long stories.” 

“Right. Fucking hell.” 

“I’m coming over,” Janine said. “With them. John’s my friend, and he and Sherlock saved me from…a lifetime of misery. Least I owe to them is to help with this.” 

“Alright. I’ll see you soon. It’s Janine, right? I usually have better manners.” 

“So do I,” Janine said gently. “We can have a very proper tea party when this is done, and we can show off our best etiquette, okay?” 

Molly giggled. “Perfect. I’ll see you soon, Janine.” 

Janine was moving before her phone shut off. Her flat wasn’t far from St. Bart’s, thank goodness. She was out the door with her coat half on when she noticed the car.   
Black, unassuming, and sitting in the taxi lanes. 

“Hello Myc.” 

Mycroft Holmes poked his head out of the window. “Miss Hawkins. Do get in.” 

“You’re taking me to St. Bart’s?” 

“Yes. You were on the way.” 

“How did you—” Janine stopped herself. “You’d think I’d learn to stop asking that question.” 

The drive was completely silent, which was fine by Janine. There was no point asking questions, no point talking it all out until everyone was there. 

Janine had never been to St. Bart’s before; she’d never had a reason. She had seen it however, when Mary first told her about John. 

“He’s fucking broken about his mate,” Mary said, showing Janine a picture. “He jumped from here.” 

Janine shot a glance up at the roof, just to see how high it was. Sherlock had told her how he survived, but it seemed even more unbelievable now that she saw it in person. 

She followed Mycroft inside, walking down a couple of long hallways to a single door. It opened into a lab, where several people were gathered around a table. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the story proper! I plan to be updating every three days until this fic is complete, so feel free to badger me if I'm running late :) The reason I put the date in is that I actually worked out a fully fledged timeline for this story with dates and everything (shout out to Aeon Timeline 2, which is a stupendous program), and it took way too long and I am absurdly proud of it.   
Also, I will tag individual chapters for content warnings as I go along, as some chapters aren't as 'E' as others (and some of them are just strong 'T's. If there's anything in particular you want me to warn for, please let me know!  
Cheers,  
Acme


	3. The Baker Street Irregulars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone meets up at St. Bart's, and there are short-term plans made.

It was an interesting tableau of reactions in the lab, because everyone looked furious, and everyone looked terrified. They were showing it in different ways, though. Sherlock’s knuckles were white around a test tube, and John’s left hand was trembling. Mary had both hands over her belly, and Greg Lestrade had his eyes half closed as he watched his phone.

  
Molly—the woman with the yellow bow—was the only one who wasn’t tried to hide her emotions. There were tears in her eyes as she dashed about the lab, moving bits and pieces around, slamming down anything that wouldn’t break. She was the first one to notice Janine and Mycroft.

  
“Is it real?” Molly asked.

  
Mycroft took a deep breath. “It appears that it is.”

  
“How can we be sure?” John asked. “It could be some sort of barmy post-death prank.”

  
“I’m afraid we’re not that lucky.” Mycroft sighed. “Unfortunately I know that it is true. Otherwise I couldn’t convince anyone to allow Sherlock to remain.”

  
“And what proof do you have?” Sherlock asked.

“Five dead bodies,” Mycroft said bluntly. “There was a letter carved into each face—I owe u. The fingerprints traced back to Moriarty.”

  
“Wouldn’t have thought he would let his fingerprints on record,” John said.

  
“He didn’t have a choice in the matter,” Mycroft answered. “More to the point, there’s video and audio evidence of him being there. The IP address of the transmission of the TV appearance traced back to Kitty Riley’s flat. Well, her old flat. She was one of the bodies.”

  
Sherlock’s mouth tightened. “Lovely. So we’re operating under the idea that he’s back, then.”

  
“How the fuck did he survive?” Mary demanded.

  
“To be fair, he only shot himself in the head,” John answered. “Sherlock jumped off a damn building and lived.”

  
“He had help,” Molly mumbled. She didn’t look at John.

  
“How…how did things happen that day?” Janine asked. She shot an apologetic look at John, who had suddenly gone very pale.

  
John cleared his throat. “I honestly don’t remember much. I had a concussion from being hit by the cyclist, and I spent most of the day at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had to keep…keep waking me up.”

  
Janine winced. “Alright. Greg?”

  
“I was one of the first on-scene,” Greg answered. “I—I couldn’t—I went up to the roof, to see what…see what I could find.” He swallowed hard. “I found Moriarty’s body. God as my witness, I thought he was dead. It was obviously a suicide; the gun was still in his mouth, for fuck’s sake.”

  
“What?” Sherlock interrupted. “No it wasn’t.”

  
“You’re sure?”

  
“Positive. His arm…it laid down on the ground.”

  
“Gregory, what time did you get onto the roof?”

  
“Not sure. I could look at the report—”

  
“Rough estimate will do for now.”

  
“Probably eight AM,” Greg said after a pause. “Or slightly after.”

  
“That’s just about half an hour after I jumped,” Sherlock said. “That would be enough time to replace a body, or for him to take a drug—which makes the most sense. Greg was the first person to go up to the roof; Molly and I were watching.” Sherlock coughed. “The jump didn’t go as smoothly as it could have, and I wrenched my shoulder. We had to sort it out before I left. That means that no help came from the street, or even the hospital staff. We were watching.”

  
“Could someone have come from the rooftop?”

  
“There was no one else on the roof with Moriarty and I,” Sherlock said definitively. “Where was his body taken?”

  
“It wasn’t taken for another hour,” Greg said. “It was a crime scene still, and I wasn’t—well, none of us were thinking clearly. Then they took him to the police morgue. And one of the things we turned up in our investigation later on was that…fuck. There were at least a few constables in Moriarty’s pay, and a couple of mortician assistants. Someone could have gotten him out, while we were all busy processing…processing what happened.”

  
“This is probably a decent time to reiterate my apology.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “As I’ve told…I believe all of you…that wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I thought I’d protected you enough, and I was wrong.”

  
“We were both wrong.” Mycroft’s face softened just a bit. “Unfortunately we hadn’t thought through plan E very well.”

  
“Wait a minute, plan E?” Mary’s eyes went wide. “How did you fuck up A through D?”

  
“Not the point right now,” Janine interrupted. Mary tried to catch her eye, but Janine looked resolutely at John. “What can we do now?”

  
“Hunt the bastard down and cut his fucking head off.”

  
Janine almost heard it wrong; she would have assumed it was John who said that, or Sherlock.

  
But it was Molly Hooper, her hands clenched around a glass beaker, who’d said it through gritted teeth.

  
“Right. Molly, I don’t know if you should say that with a police officer present…”

  
“I’ll go to prison for it,” Molly replied. “I wouldn’t put up a fuss at all, unless you want overtime, Greg. But I want the bastard dead and dead for good.”

  
Greg rubbed a hand over his face. “Short of murder—for the moment—what are our immediate next steps?”

  
“Securing Janine’s safety, for one thing,” Mary said.

  
“I beg your pardon?” Janine asked.

  
“Mary’s got a point, Janine.” John jumped in, sensing danger. “You weren’t in this last time. You can get away. We can try and hide you.”

  
Janine swallowed her anger, because John wasn’t being condescending. He had a point; her being Magnussen’s PA might protect her. Moriarty might think she was on his side, or at least neutral. She’d just rid herself of one psychopath; she should be jumping at the chance to get away. Away to her cottage in Sussex, where she was going to keep the beehives after all…

  
“You’re my friend, John.” Janine didn’t miss Mary and Sherlock’s winces, and she didn’t give a fuck. “I’m not going to leave when you’re facing a nightmare. I’m not sure what I can do to help, but I’ll do it.”

  
“I’m sure we’ll think of something you can do,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “Secondly, Mrs. Hudson? Do you want to approach her with the same offer?”

  
Janine snorted. “Are you mental? She’ll try to hit you with the frying pan again.”

  
“Then if everyone is determined to be involved in the fight—” 

“I’m not, actually.” 

That was Mary, her voice much softer and uncertain than Janine had ever heard. “I can’t…I want to help, but I need to protect my baby.” 

John nodded. “I think that’s a good idea, love.” 

“I’d be happy to host Mrs. Watson at my headquarters,” Mycroft offered. “She’ll be perfectly safe there, and if you have any…intelligence to add, it will good to have you on hand.” 

“I’ll go back to Baker Street then,” John said. “If that’s alright, Sherlock.” 

“Of course. You’d both be welcome.” 

John kissed Mary’s hand. It was the same sweet gesture Janine had observed during their courtship, and it made her smile. 

Then of course, John had to spoil it. 

“Baby’s got to have one parent at least,” John said. “It’s better if we’re in different places.” 

“You’ll Skype with me?” 

“I promise,” John said. 

“Gregory? Molly? What are your plans?” 

“When I was working on clearing Sherlock’s name, I found a few different leads,” Greg said. “At the time it wasn’t anything, since I thought they would end with a dead scrawny Irish fucker. But I kept the notes, so I’ll go over them. I’ve already had ten texts from the Commissioner, so it’s likely I’ll be working on the task force to bring him down.” 

“Oh yes. Scotland Yard will save the day!” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“We managed alright for two years,” Greg said coolly. 

“Molly?” Mycroft asked. 

“I don’t know,” Molly said. Her grip on the beaker had loosened just slightly. “I suppose I can try to help with investigating.” 

“You could teach me,” Janine offered. “I don’t know much about the background of this.” 

“Did you ever know Moriarty in his last…well, period of activity?” 

“I know that Magnussen worked with him occasionally,” Janine said. “But I never actually met him; Magnussen always sent me out until he was gone.” 

“Were they close?” Mycroft asked. 

Janine had wondered the same thing for years. “Yes, but only on a professional level. The day he…well, the day we thought he died, Magnussen told me that a great brain had gone to waste. I think he admired him more than anything..even a bit of fear. It could be his control issues too; Magnussen was never good at sharing his toys.” 

“So they worked together,” Greg mused. “Do you think there might be anything useful at his office?” 

“Appledore was only a mind palace,” Janine said, confused. “Isn’t that right, John?” 

“Yes, but he did say he got things occasionally.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted. “Maybe that’s what Moriarty did for him. We need to figure out what Moriarty got in return.” 

“We’ve got a sodding shopping list of things to figure out,” John muttered. “Now that we know Janine’s in for it, what’s an immediate problem?” 

“Security. Mrs. Watson is welcome to stay at my home, but where will the rest of you be? John, you and Sherlock are returning to Baker Street, correct?” 

“Yes. Mrs. Hudson is there too, so that’s three people taken care of at once. What about you, Janine? Molly?” 

“My flat’s got every kind of security known to mankind, and I’ve already reprogrammed them all to be different than when Magnussen gave them to me.” Janine rolled her eyes at the shocked looks. “Like I said, Magnussen didn’t want anything to happen to his toys. Molly, you could come and stay at mine, it’s not far from here. You could take the Tube—” 

“No,” Mycroft said. 

“No?” Janine repeated. “Why?” 

“I’ll supply you all with cars and drivers. No cabs, no Tube. That’s the very least I can do to ensure your safety.” 

“We can look after ourselves!” John argued. 

“You aren’t going to this time.” Mycroft’s voice turned very cold indeed. “We have no idea what this maniac is planning, and last time we faced him it cost us all two years! And he’s spent at least the last ten months planning, if not all of those two years as well. We are all more vulnerable, and we are at a serious disadvantage. So you’re going to ride in the damn cars. Are we clear?” 

No one said a word. 

“I’d be happy to stay with you, Janine,” Molly broke the silence. “I can go get packed and bring some things.” 

“Lovely. I have a guest room that’s nice. It hasn’t been used in about two years, so I’ll have to do some dusting first.” 

“Oh, wait. Are you allergic to cats?” 

“Not that I know of,” Janine said. “Do you have one?” No pets for those who work at Magnussen’s. 

“Yes. His name is Toby. He’s no trouble at all, I promise.” 

“Bring him along, then. What about you, Greg?” 

“I’m a police officer, I can’t exactly go into protective custody because of something that might happen.” Greg glared at Mycroft. “If you’re going to shackle me to a driver, you’d best tell them that I work strange hours and I don’t wait around.” 

“Then it’s simple. They’ll be your bodyguard as well.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake—” 

“Gregory. The alternative to this is sending you all to a remote island in the South Pacific until all of this blows over.” 

Janine recognized the tone; she’d heard it when Sherlock was frightened. “You’re scared, aren’t you?” 

“Terrified, Miss Hawkins,” Mycroft said. And he wasn’t joking. “James Moriarty is the closest we have ever come to allowing the country to fall. Make no mistake, that is what he will try to do. Right now, he knows that we are standing in the way. You knew Magnussen. Moriarty is worse.” 

Janine swallowed. 

“I will keep you all safe,” Mycroft whispered. “I have to.” 

“Alright, Mycroft,” Greg said. “I’m sorry. We’ll listen—we all will.” 

“Excellent.” Mycroft’s mask shifted back into place. “I will contact our parents, Sherlock, and make sure they move somewhere secure.” 

Sherlock nodded. “Looks like we’re walking back into the spider’s web.” 

“Only this time we’ll bring bug spray. And scissors,” John said. He put a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “And absolutely no one is going it alone. Understand?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was absolutely no foreshadowing at all in this chapter. Absolutely none.


	4. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock head to Baker Street, Mary joins Mycroft at his home, and Molly and Toby move into Janine's flat. Some important conversations are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating, and happy Halloween!   
TW: There is some suicidal ideation discussed in this chapter; it's in the past, but a plan is mentioned. It takes place in John and Sherlock's section (the last one), so if you want to skip it let me know and I can sum up what happened in that part. Please take care of yourselves.

“Come on in,” Janine invited Molly. “Don’t worry about your shoes, it’s a bit of a mess in here anyways.” 

That was a slight understatement. Every surface was covered with something—clothes, shopping bags, stacks of books, stacks of CDs, stacks of films…there was no food lying around, and the kitchen and bathroom were spotless, but Janine revelled in the rest of the mess. It was so different from her stupid office. 

Molly didn’t say a word. She just put down the cat carrier. Toby was quietly protesting the change in housing, and he shot out of the carrier like a bullet, diving under the sofa. 

“Well, I can show you the guest room,” Janine said. It was awkward—she barely knew this woman, what the hell had she been thinking? 

“Sure,” Molly said. “Toby won’t do anything to your stuff. He was declawed before I got him, the poor little thing.” 

“Christ, that’s awful.” 

“Yeah. The first woman who adopted him just came back two weeks later, and his claws were gone. She said he was too boring.” 

“Stupid.” Janine flipped the light on in the guest room. It was technically cleaner in here than it was outside, because there wasn’t any clutter. There was, however, a reasonable layer of dust on everything, and she hadn’t hoovered in here for…hm, had it actually been two years? 

“I’ll strip the bed and get everything in the wash,” Janine decided. “I’ll put the kettle on first. Do you want to watch telly?” 

“Actually…” Molly looked shy. “I saw that you had the Chronicles of Narnia out there.” 

Janine grinned. “Complete box set. I always want my covers to match.” 

“I can just read. Or I can help with the cleaning in here, I don’t mind.” 

“Not at all. You’re a guest, and you shouldn’t be cleaning.” 

The kettle finished boiling just as Janine finished shoving the last of the sheets into the washer, which she took as a hopeful sign. When she started to pour the tea, Molly looked up from the Magician’s Nephew. “Do you need any—” 

“Not at all,” Janine answered. “What do you take in it?” 

“Do you have honey?” 

“Absolutely. That’s all I ever take in mine. Do you want just straight honey, or…” 

Molly’s eyes widened. “There are other kinds?"

“Yes. I have raspberry and cinnamon, and I’m expecting another package tomorrow with more kinds.”

“Can I try the cinnamon?” 

“Of course.” Janine added cinnamon honey to one steaming mug, and raspberry honey to the other. She stepped over the piles of clutter with practiced ease, and handed Molly her mug. 

“Thank you.” Molly took a sip and beamed. “That’s lovely.” 

“That didn’t burn your tongue?” 

“I always drink it as hot as possible. My tongue has learned to cope.” 

“I have to wait, my stupid tongue is sensitive.” Janine placed her mug on the stack of books that served as a makeshift table, and stood up to return to cleaning. 

“Janine, can you…can we just sit, for a minute?” Molly sipped at her tea. “I just…a lot’s happened in the last few hours.” 

Janine slumped back against the sofa and sighed. “You’re telling me.” 

“Are you scared?” Molly asked. 

“I don’t know,” Janine said. “Magnussen…it was sort of a game that I lost the moment I started playing. But there were rules, and as long as I followed them I could live my life in peace. This is different, isn’t it?” 

“Moriarty’s never been one to show his hand early,” Molly answered. “The only reason we defeated—well, we thought we defeated him—last time is because Mycroft and Sherlock boxed him in. But he still managed to get out.” 

“Like Schrodinger’s cat gone mad,” Janine muttered. “So I suppose I am afraid, but I’m ready to face that. It’s not that different from usual. What about you?” 

Molly bowed her head. “I’m terrified,” she said into her mug. “And the only reason I’m scared is because I thought I was safe. I should have done more.” 

“You had enough to do helping Sherlock survive,” Janine said gently. “There’s no need to be ashamed of that.” 

Molly wiped her eyes. “It’s just—God, these last few months have been awful. I broke off with Tom, Sherlock got shot and then John and Mary didn’t tell me anything, they just stopped talking, and then Sherlock was getting sent away forever, and—” she broke off, cleared her throat, and sipped her tea. 

“Yes, that is a lot to take in.” Janine tried to find the safest topic. “So are you…in love with Sherlock?” 

_Oh, well done._

Molly actually laughed. “I was, once. Did he tell you?” 

Janine shook her head. 

“I’m not anymore. He’s my friend. I love him a lot, especially when he’s actually trying to be a good person. But I got over him. I actually did, no matter what people say. Tom wasn’t a ‘Sherlock clone’.” 

Janine winced. She’d overheard the comment at John and Mary’s wedding, but she hadn’t known what to say, or whether there was any truth to the statement. 

“We met at work,” Molly went on. “He was a good man, and he treated me well. I liked his family, and his friends. I felt…pretty. For the first time. But he wasn’t…enough, for me.” 

“No?” 

“No. We couldn’t have a real conversation. He didn’t want to talk about work, and he didn’t like to talk about the same things I do. We didn’t laugh together much. I think that’s why I broke it off. I didn’t want to have half of a relationship.” Molly looked at Janine over her mug. “Is that selfish?” 

“You’re asking a woman who won’t go on second dates because of her boss,” Janine answered. “ But no, I don’t think you’re being selfish. I think you’re paying attention to what you really need, and not settling. That’s fucking hard to do.” 

They sat in silence for a long minute. Janine finally took a sip of tea, and she watched as Toby climbed onto Molly’s lap. He stared at Janine with narrowed eyes. If a cat could look suspicious, this one did. 

Then Janine remembered her other point. “Wait, Molly—did you never hear the story of what happened with John and Mary?” 

“No,” Molly said. “I didn’t ask. John was so upset, and Mary—well, she and I have never really been close. John and I didn’t talk while Sherlock was away.” 

“Was that your choice or his?” 

“Mine.” Molly petted Toby. “I couldn’t bear seeing him so upset, and knowing that I could—that I could make it better, but I couldn’t help or he would be in danger.” 

“You must have been lonely those years,” Janine said quietly. Impulsively, she reached over and took the other woman’s hand. “So you don’t know what happened?” 

“Sherlock told me that I could ask him, but that it wasn’t fair to ask John or Mary until they had everything sorted out, one way or another. And that…that made sense, so I didn’t.” 

“But that meant you couldn’t help your friends again,” Janine noted. “I don’t think you like that at all, do you?” 

Molly shook her head, and bit her lip. “I never had many friends, growing up. I was always so shy and weird and clumsy, that no one really talked to me. I didn’t really start making friends until I met Sherlock. After he fell, and everyone was grieving, and I couldn’t talk—it just hurt, it hurt so much, and there was no one to talk to.” 

“That’s why you’re so afraid of Moriarty coming back,” Janine realized. “Because he hurt you really badly.” 

“It was a pyrrhic victory,” Molly said. “And now I know it was all for nothing. All that pain was for nothing.” 

Toby meowed and rubbed against Molly’s arm, trying to soothe her. 

Janine was still holding Molly’s hand. “It wasn’t for nothing, Molly. Moriarty hasn’t done anything in the past two years. John and Mary are together, and they’re going to have a baby, and that might not have happened if you hadn’t kept your silence. And now everyone’s alive and ready to face him again. I think that’s a good effort.” 

“So John and Mary are together still, then?” Molly said anxiously. “They looked alright today, but I just wasn’t sure.” 

Janine made a decision. “I’m going to tell you everything I know about it,” she said. “John never asked me to keep it in confidence, and you deserve to know. You deserve to know without having to ask, because you’re their friend. I think they’ve gotten too used to you only asking for things when you need them, so they think if you’re not asking then you don’t need anything.” 

“Alright.” Molly watched Janine’s face. “I won’t talk to them about it if you think it’ll get you in trouble.” 

“I don’t give a monkey’s about that,” Janine assured her. “I can out-yell all of them, I’m sure.” She realized that she was holding Molly’s hand still, and thought about pulling away, but Molly was clinging to her like a lifeline. 

“I’m not sure where to start exactly,” Janine said thoughtfully. “But how about when Mary shot Sherlock?” 

“MARY SHOT SHERLOCK?!” 

Molly’s voice was so loud it scared Toby off her lap. 

Janine just blinked. “Right. We’ll start from a day before that, then…” 

By the time the story was finished, the sheets were ready, and Janine had completely forgotten to tidy up. Molly had her fists clenched, and Janine resisted the urge to pat her on the head. It would be such an insulting gesture, but Molly did look very like her cat. Curled up, ready to hiss at the world, but would much rather have a cuddle. 

“So they’re just going to…go on?” Molly asked in disbelief. 

“I suppose,” Janine answered. “John’s made it very clear that he’s forgiven Mary, and so has Sherlock. Hell, he willingly gave up his freedom to protect her.” 

“What about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Wasn’t he trying to protect you as well? I mean…you worked for Magnussen. Now you’re free.” 

“I am. But I don’t think that was first on his mind, Molls. Mary was in more immediate danger.”

“I suppose. But he does care about you.” 

Janine laughed. “You know, John told me the same thing. Interesting, that it’s not Sherlock telling me that.” 

“I’m pretty sure we all just go around in a circle telling each other that he cares.” Molly shrugged. “Remember that speech at John’s wedding?” 

Janine smiled. “Beautiful speech.” 

“That was the nicest I’ve ever heard him be to John in public, and they were friends for eighteen months before he went away.” 

“How does he expect people to put up with that?” Janine asked. She took a sip of tea, grimaced—it was stone cold—and got up. “I understand he’s got his own issues, but people…if they think someone doesn’t care about them, it’s hard to change their minds.”

She reached for the broom in the corner of the room, and turned to see Molly looking at her—not with pity, exactly, but there was bewilderment in her eyes. 

“That’s the thing,” Molly said. “I don’t think you’ve been around him with people he doesn’t like. It’s like night and day. We’ve all learned what he’s like, and I suppose it makes more sense now. Not that he didn’t use to be a bastard.” 

“Only used to be?” 

Molly rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes. Before he met John he was insufferable.” But her mouth twitched as she said it, and Janine noticed. She didn’t comment though. 

“I’m going to switch over the linens, then I’ll get the room tidied.” 

“I can help,” Molly protested. 

“It’s one room, Molls, I’ve got it.” 

“Fine. Can I tidy up out here?” 

Janine looked at her. “Thought you were alright with the mess.” 

“Oh, I am. But if you’re going to have a mess, might as well make it a convenient mess.” 

“What on earth do you mean?” 

“Go clean in there and I’ll show you. Don't look until I tell you.” 

Amused, Janine followed instructions. She deliberately put her hands over her eyes when she went to get the sheets, and she didn’t look around until Molly called her name. She turned…and blinked. 

The mass of blankets that were twisted between the floor and couch were now thrown onto the back of the sofa, vaguely arranged by colour. The piles of books were still there, but they were organized by series, with the first book on top. All of the discs were piled on either side of the television. 

“There’s clutter, and then there’s a comfy mess,” Molly said, her eyes dancing. “I like this sort better, don’t you?” 

“It’s wonderful,” Janine said honestly. “Are you hungry?” 

“Starving.” 

Janine reached for the phone, but thought better of it. Take-out wasn’t the best idea at the moment. Instead she pulled eggs and cheese from the fridge and tortillas from a cupboard. 

“What are you making?” 

“Egg and cheese quesadillas—which is a fancy way of saying that I’m making flat bread with eggs and cheese. What kind of spices do you like?” 

Molly was quiet, watching Janine prepare dinner. She only spoke to answer a question—yes, she liked smoothies but not with bananas, and yes, a glass of water would be nice. Toby prowled around the living room, occasionally leaping onto one of the book piles. 

“Don’t worry,” Molly said, noting Janine’s concerned look. “I’ve gotten used to re-stacking for him.” 

Janine grinned. “I just don’t want him to spoil your work. Oh—what does he eat?” 

Molly looked at the clock. “His dinner time isn’t for another hour. I usually get home about now and I like to eat with him.” 

Janine stopped midway through turning a quesadilla, which resulted in spilled cheese in the pan and a muttered curse. “We can wait if you’re—” 

“We don’t need to wait. I’m fine. And Toby will survive. He might meow at us, though.” 

Toby did indeed meow, which was useful. It kept drawing Janine and Molly’s attention to the cat, and away from the fact that they still didn’t really know each other all that well.

* * *

Mary stepped into the flat gingerly, unsure of what to expect. Mycroft had always been so cold, colder than Sherlock could ever be. She was expecting a flat that reflected that.   
To her surprise, it was a nice flat. The entryway had a set of stairs—two full floors, that’s what being the British Government could do—and everything was carpeted with a soft, thick carpet Mary felt herself sink into. She glanced to the left and saw a study; a large desk, several bookcases, and four computer monitors. To the right was a kitchen with several different machines, some Molly had never seen before. There was another door down the hall. 

“That will be your room, Mrs. Watson,” Mycroft said. He was standing patiently behind her. “There’s a toilet attached. My room is on the first floor, should you need to reach me.”

“Thank you.” Mary put her bag down, irritated that such little weight was becoming taxing. “And Mycroft, don’t you think it’s time you called me Mary?” 

She turned and saw Mycroft’s face shut down, just a little bit, but enough to know the confrontation was coming. 

“I think we need to talk, Mrs. Watson.” 

“Yeah, I suppose we should.” Other than that awkward Christmas Day at the Holmes’, Mary hadn’t seen Mycroft at all in the months since Sherlock was shot. 

_Since I shot Sherlock,_ Mary corrected herself. 

Mycroft indicated a chair, and Mary sat, a hand going to her belly out of habit.

“What do you know?” Mary asked. Straight to the point was always best in these situations. 

“About your present identity?” Mycroft asked. “Or your former ones?” 

Mary’s eyes widened. “So you—” 

“I am aware that your husband has forgiven your deception and accepted silence on your past,” Mycroft answered. “And nothing we speak about will leave this room. But before John made his decision, yes, I did research you. I should have done that two years earlier, when you first met John.” 

“You would have researched me anyways?” 

“As I did for all of John’s relationships. Come now, do you think Sherlock would just suddenly like you and not any of the other women John dated?” 

“You sicced Sherlock on those women?” 

“They weren’t suitable candidates for John’s hand. He’d suffered enough as it was.” 

Mary leaned back in her chair. “You really love him,” she said, impressed. “I wondered.” 

“I love my brother,” Mycroft corrected her. “By extension, I care about the people in his life.I try to catch out people who would harm them. I’m afraid I don’t always succeed.” 

“You didn’t catch me.” 

“Not really, actually.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I knew that Mary Morstan was a false identity,” Mycroft said quietly. “I had no idea why, but I knew other things about you. That you cared for John. That you were a good person by all measurable standards. I decided to let the past be the past.” 

“That’s very…trusting of you.” 

“I have several dozen women working for me, Mrs. Watson, and a similar amount of men. Most of them have changed their identities more than once before they come to me, for a hundred different reasons. So long as they are the person they appear to be, if not the name, I trust them. And I trusted you.” 

“I am sorry I shot Sherlock,” Mary said. Guilt welled up in her again. “I didn’t trust him—well, I didn’t trust myself either. Or John. I was terrified, and I panicked.” 

“You won’t do so again.” Mycroft’s voice was firm. 

“No, I won’t. I have two ridiculous men in my life who I love very much, and I trust them now. They’ve seen the worst of me, and they’ve accepted it anyways.” 

“Well, they haven’t seen the details of what was ‘worst’.” 

Mary drew in a breath. “Right. And you have.” 

“I was thorough.” Mycroft steepled his fingers. “You’ve had quite the career, Rosamond.” 

“That’s not my name anymore.” 

“No, but I need to speak to Rosamond at the moment.” 

“I don’t have multiple personalities—” 

“No, but you do compartmentalize. Push aside Mary Watson for a moment. Push away Mary Morstan. You are safe here, and as I said, nothing will leave this room.”   
Mary leaned forward. “Why not do this with the others around?” 

“Sherlock and John have expressed their wishes. And I don’t know how much Molly Hooper and Gregory Lestrade know…?” 

“Not much,” Mary admitted. She leaned back again, and closed her eyes. It was a rudimentary trick for mentally switching between identities, but it was what worked for her, so she used it. When she opened them again, she considered Mycroft. 

“What do you know?” 

“I know your history of jobs, though not the details of each. I know that your code was no children and no unnecessary bloodshed, but you seemed to be the one defining necessity. I know where you were born, and where you’ve worked. I also know that you haven’t quite finished your nursing training.” 

“Had to skip town before the course ended,” Mary shrugged. “It was just paperwork in the end. That’s easy enough to fill out.” 

“Indeed. I said I know your history of jobs, but there wasn’t always very much information about who hired you. The CIA and FBI of course, and you even worked for Interpol—trying to go legitimate?” 

“Didn’t work.” 

“So the first question I have to ask you, Rosamond, is did you ever knowingly work for James Moriarty?” 

Mary thought about it, casting her mind back, matching up the new names she’d learned from John and Greg with what she knew about her old bosses. “No. I never did.” 

“Did you know of him?” 

“Not by that name. People called him the King, or the Spider, but we all sort of knew what he was, who he was.” 

“And what did you and the others sort of know?” 

“That he was dangerous as hell to cross. That he always paid well, and without complaint. That he was always willing to help plan a crime, as long as he got a cut. And that…he had no morals whatsoever. You’re right; I never hurt a child, not once. I walked away from several jobs that involved exactly that, and I sleep better for it. But the Spider—it didn’t seem to matter for him. He would—and did—do everything.” 

Mycroft nodded. “Do you know who worked for him the most?” 

“He liked Sebastian Moran,” Mary offered. 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Any relationship to Lord Moran?” 

“No. At least I don’t think so. He was a good bloke, always good for a laugh. And the best damn sniper in the business. He could kill someone with a repurposed Nerf gun from two hundred feet away.” 

“I haven’t heard that name before,” Mycroft said. 

“Really? He’s got plenty of notches on his belt. Maybe he goes by a different name professionally. I never met him in that capacity. We were lovers for a few weeks. And even in professional circles, people just called him Seb.” 

“Can you give me a description?” 

“I can draw you a picture,” Mary offered. “That would probably be more useful. I’ve got a good memory.” 

“Indeed. So, Mrs. Watson, you can come back now.” 

Mary blinked, and there she was. “Why did you ask me all of that?” 

“I thought you might have some insight.” 

“The only thing I told you that you didn’t already know was about Seb.” 

“That’s significant. You see, I’ve been concerned in the last few months by random sniping incidents all over the country. There have been six so far, and four of those cases have a suspect in custody, but they all swear they were framed. The people who were killed were ordinary, with no ties to crime or to each other. It almost looked like someone was practicing.” 

Mary went cold from head to foot. “So you think that maybe—” 

“I don’t know for certain,” Mycroft said quietly, “but I think Moriarty has been putting a plan into action at least since October, and possibly before.” 

“And it’s January. Wonderful.” Mary groaned. “And that means that he must be ready for something, because otherwise he wouldn’t be drawing attention to himself.” 

“He is a formidable foe,” Mycroft said. “We must be ready to do anything.” 

Mary put her hand on her stomach. “He’s going to kill my baby, isn’t he?” 

Mycroft hesitated. “That would be a logical act. It would devastate all three of you at once, and could leave you in physical danger. Even the threat could tie our hands.”   
“It won’t tie mine. Mycroft, I’ve learned a thing or two about pressure points from dealing with Magnussen. The most important thing I’ve learned is that there’s a difference between a pressure point and a pain point. If anyone tries to hurt my child, they will be stopped. Permanently.” 

“Then we’d better get started.” 

* * *

Sherlock let John go in front of him, into 221b once again. He needed to check the locks. Of course Mycroft would install them, but he had to check anyways.   
OCD ran in the family. 

When he got inside John was already upstairs. Mrs. Hudson was in the hallway, her face creased with worry. “Are you two alright, dear?” 

“We will be,” Sherlock said. And they would be. They would find their way back to their normal life eventually. Probably just in time for John’s daughter to be born, and for John to enter into parenthood with his wife. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Yes?” 

“Are you frightened?” Mrs. Hudson asked. From the way she was twisting her hands, she certainly was. 

“I’m angry right now,” Sherlock answered. “I hope that will carry me through. I dislike being afraid.” 

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “It’s not bloody fair,” she whispered. “You two have been through enough with all this.” 

“No one decides whether life is fair, Mrs. Hudson. All we can do is try to right the scales.”   
Mrs. Hudson nodded. “You’re not going to try and send us away, are you? Because I stayed here today to start cooking. Everyone is going to eat properly, I don’t care how many maniacs are running about.” 

Sherlock kissed her cheek, suddenly overcome. “I couldn’t do that,” he whispered. “Not again. We’ll fight it out together, one way or another.” 

“Go on up there,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I’ve got things in the oven, and I’m sure John’s going to need you right now.” 

Sherlock climbed the seventeen steps carefully. He wasn’t entirely sure which John he would encounter. After all, there were a lot of possible feelings. Anger, hurt, fear, loneliness, resentment even. Sherlock could deal with any of them; he’d learned John’s moods well enough over their friendship. It always helped to have an idea first.   
But he couldn’t make bricks without clay. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and entered the room. John was standing by the table, looking out the window. His shoulders were tense, but he didn’t look angry. Not yet. 

“When will the windows be secured?” John asked. 

“They should be finished this evening. Mycroft wants it done after dark.” 

“Wouldn’t that draw more attention than the daytime?” 

“Yes. I believe he’s making a point.” Sherlock wasn’t sure what point that was. 

“I hate hiding.” 

“I know. I’m sorry, John.” 

John turned to look at him for the first time. His eyes were weary, and his shoulders slumped. 

Exhaustion and burnout. Ah. That was dangerous territory. 

“I really thought this was over,” John said. “I thought—after everything with Mary and Magnussen—I thought we might find some solid ground. Maybe do some cases, and when the baby was born we’d have to figure out new arrangements, but things would be okay. Is it so wrong to want that?” 

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock said promptly. “You’re human, and you’ve had a tremendous amount of upheaval in the last year. You have another large change coming up because of a very small person. Wanting stability is normal.” 

“Not very like me, is it?” 

“Stability is not the same thing as sedentary living, John. Merely something to come home to.” 

That made John’s lip twitch. “You’ve got to stop reading those books.” 

“I came up with that one on my own,” Sherlock said indignantly. 

“Right, of course you did.” John went to his chair and sat down, wincing as he stretched out his leg. “So I’m back here. You’re going to have to clear out any experiments in my bedroom.” 

“There aren’t any. I was leaving the country this morning, if you remember.” 

John actually flinched. “I almost feel grateful, you know.” 

Sherlock blinked. “Sorry?” 

“You wouldn’t be here if Moriarty hadn’t come back.” 

No, that was true. “I would rather be heading away than have Moriarty back.” 

“Just like last time.” 

Oh dear. Sherlock could see the shift in John’s mood, moving swiftly towards anger. 

“I didn’t want to leave last time, either.” 

“Yes, well…” 

“Well what?” 

John looked up at him. “I know it was the snipers, Sherlock. I know that’s why you didn’t tell me anything then, or during the two years. It was risky, and I appreciate it, you know I do. But why were you up there in the first place?” 

Sherlock froze. They hadn’t talked about this part of that hateful day, and he really didn’t want to talk about it now. 

“Is it because you had the plan to fake your death the entire time? Because otherwise I don’t see why you would suggest that as a meeting place to Moriarty.” 

“You’ve seen the texts.” That was the only explanation Sherlock could think of. 

John nodded, his jaw tight. “They gave me everything you had in your pockets once they…once they took you away. Or I suppose when Molly took you away. And your phone was pretty broken, but that text was on the screen. Why did you choose that place, Sherlock?” 

“Because I planned to jump from St. Bart’s all along,” Sherlock answered. It must be better to go with the truth now, surely. “I suppose you must have figured it out.” 

“I did.” John eyes were cold now. “So did you want me to see it, then?” 

“No!” Sherlock burst out. “I never wanted you to see it. And I was going to tell you all.” 

“You were still going to let us think you were dead, though. You planned all of that, and didn’t think to tell us anything. Even when the plan changed!” 

“You said that you’ve forgiven me for that!” Sherlock snapped. “And I suppose you’re still allowed to be angry, but—” 

“I thought you killed yourself!” 

“I know, you thought I was dead—” 

“No, Sherlock.” John’s voice changed, and there was a rough, raw pain in it that Sherlock had never, ever heard. “I didn’t think you were dead. I thought you killed yourself.”  
Sherlock fell silent. The difference was dawning on him. 

“I told you I believed in you,” John said. “I told you that I knew you weren’t a fraud, and then I left you in that hospital alone and called you—I called you—”   
You machine!

“You were upset,” Sherlock whispered. “I’ve never held that against you.” 

John didn’t seem to hear him. “And then I realized that I’d fallen for a trap, and came back and you…you were on the roof.” The words were coming thick and fast. “And I tried to tell you that I was going to be beside you, that I knew you were lying, and then you…you hung up. And jumped. My best friend killed himself while I was on the phone with him.” 

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. 

“I wasn’t enough to keep you alive,” John said, and his voice was hoarse with tears. “I couldn’t stop you. What a way to repay what you did for me.” 

Sherlock didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. 

“You never saw that, did you? How close I was before I met you. I had it all planned out; I was going to take a bus out to a cliff overlooking the ocean and jump in. You know I’m not much of a swimmer. Anyways, a January ocean would shut me down fast. But then I ran into Mike and I decided that I might be able to help this other person who no one wanted as a flatmate.” John was shaking all over now. “And you saved me—you made me remember life could be extraordinary, and I stayed, you let me stay. And then you were gone, and I couldn’t save you, and I had to live with that for two years, and you were alive the whole time, so forgive me for being angry—” 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, as tight as he dared. “No John, forgive me.” He cleared his throat, realizing there were tears on his own face. “I didn’t want to do that. I hoped it would be faster than that, that I could leave you clues so you could find out that I was alive. I didn’t think—I didn’t know—” His knees buckled, and the two of them sank to the floor, holding onto each other like they were going to fall apart. 

Sherlock certainly felt like it. Being shot hadn’t hurt this much, being without John for those two years hadn’t torn into him like this. He could feel John shaking against him, could feel every inch of John’s pain. The two of them had limped across these floorboards, bled on the couch and nursed migraines with ice packs that thawed, melting onto the ground. Now it felt like his very soul was being dragged, catching on non-existent splinters. 

He could have missed John entirely; he could have seen an article about a fallen soldier, killed by war after he left the battlefield. Would he have understood John from a few short sentences? Or would he have deleted his existence? 

“What can I do?” Sherlock pleaded. “How can I ever fix that? How have you even tried to forgive me?” 

John looked up at him, with a ferocity in his eyes that was part pain, part rage, and part some emotion that Sherlock was too scared to name. “You’re my world, Sherlock. My whole world, and there’s nothing that will change that. No one can take that from me, not even you.” 

Sherlock trembled. “I never wanted to do that. I never wanted to hurt you like that.” 

For a second a battle played out across John’s face, and the intensity of his gaze made Sherlock feel sure they were on the edge of a terrible storm. But then it was gone, and there was a worn out veteran’s weariness in its place. The familiar smile, tired eyes, and relaxed eyebrows were there, and it was John again. 

Sherlock almost wanted the storm. 

John leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock brought his hands up, trying to hold John up. 

“It wasn’t exactly a joke in the restaurant.” 

John tensed. 

“No, listen, please.” Sherlock stumbled over the words. “I was so happy to be back, you see. It took so damn long, so much longer than I wanted it to be. I was going to be home by Christmas, and give you the most ridiculous jumper I could find. But things were so much more complicated, and before I knew it, there was two years. Two years gone, and I missed you so bloody much.” Sherlock held John tighter. “Please understand that.” _Please know it, as sure as you know you’re alive._

“I missed you too.” John’s voice was wavering. 

“But then I was on the plane. I was coming…coming home. And that was all I could think about. How happy I was. And you and I seemed to feel the same way, sometimes. I just thought you would just be happy to see me too. It was over. All of it was over.” 

“I was happy to see you. Really, I was. I’m so glad you’re alive, Sher.” 

“I know that,” Sherlock said honestly. “But I wasn’t thinking—I didn’t want to think that night, John. I didn’t want to think about how bad things had been. For either of us. But that’s not…people can’t do that. Even I couldn’t do it, and I was trying to do it.” Sherlock felt tears prick at his eyes, and he fought them back angrily. He wasn’t supposed to be upset. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I’m sorry I almost broke your nose. And punched you. And did some strangling.”

“As I said, I deserved it.” 

“You didn’t deserve it,” John objected. He was leaning heavily on Sherlock now. “I just—I wanted to make sure you were real.” 

Sherlock swallowed, one of his worst fears confirmed. “I suppose someone coming back from the dead would prompt that reaction.” 

John actually laughed, but it sounded all wrong. “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

Oh dear. “How often did you see me?” Sherlock asked. 

“A lot more at first. S’pose my brain just didn’t want to believe it. It got easier over time, but I still had flashes of you, especially in crowds. And there were times…there were times I let it happen. I even talked to the hallucinations, sometimes. Which I know isn’t the right thing to do, and it probably made it worse—” 

“I talked to you every single day.” 

John looked up. “What?” 

“Every single day. My mind never manifested you as such, but I still talked to you. Sometimes I thought I could hear your voice.” Sherlock swallowed hard. “You were always very helpful.” 

“Doesn’t sound like me.” 

“Of course it does. Don’t you remember, John? You saved me. I meant that…I still wished you were there.” 

“So did I. But we’re here now, and we’ll face this together. Right?” 

“I promise, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is meant to provide some clues as to some future relationships. One is obvious, one is very quiet, and one may not be what you think. Any guesses?   
Cheers,   
Acme  
PS I did verify that there are different flavours of honey, here is a site that sells a bunch of different kinds: https://www.honeypacifica.com/categories/Flavored-Honey/


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janine makes a super-secure group chat. But she still fulfills the most important part of group chats: the nicknames. It's for security!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some levity after the last chapter! 
> 
> Everyone's text names:   
PregMare: Mary  
CurlLocks: Sherlock  
DopeOnTheMic: Mycroft  
3ContWat: John Watson  
MHoops: Molly Hooper  
Gregless: Greg Lestrade  
Hudders: Mrs. Hudson  
Jan8: Janine Hawkins

_Jan8 added PregMare, CurlLocks, DopeOnTheMic, 3ContWat, MHoops, Gregless and Hudders to the conversation_ **Baker Street Irregulars**.

DopeOnTheMic: This is ridiculous. 

Jan8: You said code names. 

CurlLocks: They don’t have to be so colourful. 

MHoops: I like them. 

3ContWat: You helped her come up with them, didn’t you? 

MHoops: Why do you say that? 

3ContWat: I’ve only made that joke once. To you. And it was a joke. 

Gregless: Children, stop squabbling. I’m more worried they’re too close to our actual names. 

DopeOnTheMic: Technically this chat should be secure, so there shouldn’t be any problem.

PregMare: So can we use our actual names then? 

Hudders: Oh, I think this is fun. 

Jan8: See, there’s the spirit! The world’s crumbling around us, we need some kind of levity or we’ll go mental. 

CurlLocks: It’s too damn early for this. 

3ContWat: You didn’t sleep, that’s not our problem. 

Hudders: Boys, stop it. I can hear you arguing upstairs. 

DopeOnTheMic: **Hudders** is correct. We need to plan our next steps. 

Jan8: MHoops and I are going to go through my…ex-job records. Just to see if we can match up the Spider and the Shark. 

DopeOnTheMic: Excellent. Do you require any further resources? 

Jan8: I suppose if you could boost our WiFi it would help. We’ll have to do a lot of looking things up, the Shark didn’t always keep records to the ‘end’ of a job. 

DopeOnTheMic: Consider that done. You’ll be receiving groceries as well. 

Jan8: Thank you **DopeOnTheMic** :) 

DopeOnTheMic: They will consist entirely of prunes. 

Jan8: :(

MHoops: NO I HATE PRUNES

DopeOnTheMic: Fine. Brother, Brother’s best friend, ideas?

CurlLocks: **Hudders** and **3ContWat** and I are going to start work with the Network, and strategize from there. May need some cash. 

Hudders: Supplies of any kind would actually be helpful. I want to help them as much as I can. 

Jan8: Should I add Wiggy to the group? 

3ContWat: Not until we have a reason, I think. Mate’s got enough involvement. 

CurlLocks: You’re still pissed off about Christmas, aren’t you? 

Pregmare: I certainly am. 

DopeOnTheMic: That conversation is for outside of this chat. You’ll receive supplies. Inspector? 

Gregless: I’m going through the Spider’s Web and finding where he was as an egg.

MHoops: I like the commitment to the metaphor. 

Gregless: I like it too. I want to rip every one of his damn legs off. 

DopeOnTheMic: I’d like to take this moment to reiterate that murder is not the best option.

Gregless: Who said anything about death?

MHoops: Seconded. 

CurlLocks: **Jan8?**

Jan8: Don’t worry, I’ve got an eye on her. 

DopeOnTheMic: This conversation is starting to deteriorate. My guest and I are going to work on my contacts, and we’ll see what comes up. Report back in this group as necessary. 

3ContWat: Right. Oh, can you do a freestyle for us? 

_DopeOnTheMic has left the conversation._

MHoops: Wow, he lasted a lot longer than I thought he would. 

_DopeOnTheMic has joined the conversation._

Jan8: Leaving the conversation doesn’t change the name! 

3ContWat: It’s too goddamn early for this. 

Gregless: On a more serious note, good luck all, and be careful. Keep in touch, and if anything goes wrong, call for help. None of this ‘ooh, I’m a hero, and I go off on my own and do stupid things and get injured and/or captured when it wasn’t necessary’. 

Jan8: I want to hear those stories later. But yes, we’ll be careful. Promise.

_Everyone has left the conversation. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I hope I made one person crack up with the names, I worked hard on them.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	6. Meeting of Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Mycroft get to work combining their areas of expertise, but they also have some time to talk about the baby.

Mycroft finished his breakfast in silence. Mary Watson was still getting dressed, so he was alone in his dining room. It let him slouch just a bit, let him linger over the food that had no taste but was a distraction from the day he was about to face.

This was all his fault. 

It was his fault that Moriarty had gotten so powerful in the first place, his fault that his brother had to flee the country for two years, his fault that Moriarty had been able to hide for nearly three. He was suppose to be the British Government, creating a facade of inefficiency where behind the scenes careful strategy operated. 

But now his family was in grave danger because of his mistakes, and his brains meant nothing. Nothing at all.   
The shuffling pregnant footsteps down the hall jolted himself out of his self-loathing. It wouldn’t do to upset Mrs. Watson; the stress upon the fetus was likely already considerable. 

“Good morning Mycroft,” Mary said quietly. She didn’t look like she’d slept much. Mycroft pushed the teapot towards her. 

“I can’t have caffeine.” 

“It’s peppermint and ginger.” 

Mary poured a cup for herself. “I don’t deserve my husband,” she remarked. 

“Perhaps not. From what I know of love, there’s no clear question about deserving.” 

Mary nodded, bringing the fragrant cup to her lips. “So you said we were going through your contacts. What kind of contacts?” 

Mycroft tried to hide his relief. That was one thing he appreciated about John’s chosen wife; she wasn’t one to beat around the bush. Distractions would be best for the both of them. 

“I have already made my way through the obvious ones,” he answered. “Members of the government, staffers, law enforcement, diplomats. Nothing has surfaced.” 

“What sort of nothing?” 

That coaxed a smile out of him. “No signs that they’re involved with Moriarty’s former network, nor any other criminal network. Not to say that there aren’t criminals among them, but they work alone. There aren’t even any political conspiracies at work.” 

“That’s dull.” 

“Indeed.” 

Mary put down her cup and put a hand to her stomach. 

“Is something wrong?” 

Mary shook her head, her jaw tightening. “I felt…baby’s kicking.” 

Mycroft cast around for details of pregnancy. Bless Sherlock for insisting he keep them. “Is this the first time?” 

“No, it’s the second time.” Mary rubbed her stomach. “She’s been very quiet.” 

“That’s normal in a first pregnancy,” Mycroft reassured her. 

Mary had a strange look in her eyes. “Do you want to feel it?” 

Mycroft wanted to say no, because the amount he cared about the fetus while still…well,a fetus, was quite small. But Mary was trying. He could see that much. 

“May I?” 

“Of course, here.” 

Mycroft let Mary take his hand and put it on her stomach. There was nothing for a moment, no movement beyond the careful rise and fall of her breathing. 

Then—

“Oh,” Mycroft said in surprise. A small thump against his hand, more of a nudge, and the fetus suddenly became a living, proper being in Mycroft’s mind. It was ridiculous; the child wasn’t even born. But this pregnancy was real now. Mary was going to be a mother, and John was going to be a father. 

“Fascinating,” was all he said. 

Mary smiled at him. “John said the same thing. Differently, though.” 

“Given that he is your husband and I am his best friend’s brother, that’s reassuring.” 

“Right. Well, we should get to work.” 

“Yes, of course.” 

* * *

Mycroft finished writing down the last name, and then stepped back from the digital white board. 

“So that’s the last one I know,” he told Mary. 

Altogether, there were one hundred and fifty names on the white board. They were names of wealthy businesswomen, doctors, elementary teachers in Canada, policemen, and even one candlemaker. They were all criminals, all people who’d had some dealings with Moriarty in the past. All of them were still active. 

“What do you know about these names?” Mary asked. 

Mycroft passed her a tablet. “Each name’s connected to a file there.” 

Mary started scrolling through the files. Speed reader. Good. 

“As far as I know, this is all correct,” she said at last. “But you haven’t marked out the relationships here.” 

“Relationships of what kind?” 

“Some of them sexual, but mostly…a lot of these people have worked together in the past.” Mary reached for the markers, and after some deliberation, started to draw lines between names. “See, these four worked in human trafficking together, and then these three are in a relationship, only one of them’s got custody of the kids…” 

Fifteen minutes and three arguments about colour choices later, the white board was crisscrossed with lines, and Mycroft knew more than he ever wanted to about the criminal underworld. 

“How do you know so much about these people?” Mycroft asked. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was envious of her thoroughness. 

“This was my world for years and years, Mycroft. And I always kept my word; I never double-crossed anyone. That makes people tell you things.” 

Mycroft looked at the lines. “There are a few very busy people on this map.” 

“Yes. Becky Silverman does a lot for a single mum.” Murder for hire, torture, and blackmail lines connected the Irish woman to multiple points across the globe. 

“And there’s Jonathan Tall in Canada, el Silenciador in Columbia, and this couple in Nigeria.” Those people had lines that Mycroft didn’t want to think about. He had a strong stomach and nerves of steel—you had to in his business. But the combination of crimes here made him want to take a shower.

“So if we’re going after people who may still be active in Moriarty’s network—”

“Or ready to join—” 

“Then it makes sense that he’d court the ones that already have established networks.” Mycroft smiled at Mary. “Excellent thinking, Mrs.—Mary.” 

Mary grinned back. “So now what do we do? We’ve got probabilities, but no one’s going to want to speak to us.” 

“Oh, we don’t need to speak to them. We just need to find out what they’ve been up to lately. I have a more extensive circle of informants than you might imagine, and now that I know where to send them, we can learn what we need without rattling any cages.” 

“We should design some strategies for them,” Mary said, opening Becky Silverman’s file again. “I know getting this information would have been difficult, but approaching these people properly to find out current plans is going to be worse. Becky and the Nigerian couple are going to be particularly difficult.” 

“I will bow to your experience,” Mycroft answered. “Design a strategy, and I will organize the teams.” 

Mary raised her eyebrows. “You trust me to do that?” 

“Yes, I do. I have every confidence in your skills as a strategist. My concern in regards to you is whether you truly love your husband enough.” 

“Enough to what?” 

_Enough to see that he loves another as well as you. Enough to see that you can be brave. _

“Enough to be getting on with,” was all Mycroft said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish Mary and Mycroft got more scenes together. Which is why I wrote them.   
Also Mycroft ships...well, he ships whatever will make his brother happiest.   
Wonder what that could be?   
Cheers,  
Acme


	7. The Art of Keeping Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janine and Molly start going through the records of Magnussen's life's work. Molly introduces Janine to a method of relaxation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: past drug abuse

When Molly woke up and padded out of her room to feed Toby, it took a few moments to realize that she wasn’t at her flat. The carpet in Janine’s flat was close to the same as hers in feel, and the lighting was the same. Even Toby brushing against her leg lulled her into feeling at home. 

But opening her eyes properly showed her she was in a very different place indeed. 

  
Janine was already awake, and she’d set up a command centre in the front room. Both the chair and half of the couch had a table in front of them, with a laptop, a bowl of what smelled like apples and berries, and a large bottle of water. There was a throw over the couch,nearly covering a big stack of notebooks and a set of coloured pens. There was a whiteboard blocking the window, a teapot resting on the stove in the kitchen, and slippers under the table. 

  
Janine was in the kitchen, pulling out a tray of scones from the oven. 

  
“Good morning!” she called. 

  
Molly stared at her. “Did I sleep in?” 

  
“I don’t know, when do you normally sleep? It’s nine. Hold on, you were awake earlier on the chat.” 

  
“Yes, but I fell back to sleep once the chat stopped.” Molly didn’t say that she hadn’t slept much the night before, despite the much more comfortable bed and pillows. But getting up was out of the question, especially since she was worried about waking Janine. So fitful sleep from one to six, a quick chat with the others, and then back to fitful sleep. 

  
“Well, that’s good. I don’t need much sleep, so I got up and set things up. Do you like it?” 

  
“It’s very thorough. What’s in the bowl?” 

  
“It’s my protein porridge. I can’t tell you the recipe, it’s a secret. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?” 

  
“No, not at all.” Molly spotted Toby and was surprised to see remnants of food in the dish. “Did you feed him?” 

“I needed to if I was going to make sure you stayed asleep. He was yowling two hours ago.” 

  
Interesting. So she had fallen asleep. “Sorry about that, he’s always cranky before he eats.” 

  
Janine scooped up Toby, who allowed the lift with good grace. “He’s very sweet otherwise, so I can forgive him that. Now, do you want the couch or the chair?” 

  
They both looked comfortable, but Molly could still feel the pain in her lower back from the heavy corpses in the past three weeks. “I’d better take the chair, better for my back.” 

  
“Do you need anything for that?” Janine asked. “I’ve got hot packs and ice packs.” 

  
“It’s fine,” Molly assured her. “I just need support.” 

  
“Okay.” Janine sat on the couch, slipping into the slippers. “Why don’t we eat before we get down to it?” 

  
Molly wasn’t sure about being hungry, but it was important to eat properly. Her blood sugar was already low, and she didn’t give a damn about what Sherlock said. Food might be transport, but she liked being able to move. 

  
“This is good,” she said after a few bites. “How did you get the recipe?” 

  
“I made it up after too many twenty hour days,” Janine answered. “It keeps me going and it actually has enough nutrients to justify having a Toblerone after lunch.” 

  
“What’s your favourite kind of Toblerone?” 

  
“Dark chocolate. Is there any other kind?” 

  
Molly grinned. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.” 

  
When her bowl was empty, Molly looked at the laptop in front of her. “So how exactly can I help?” 

  
Janine steepled her fingers. “Well, before we start…you know you can’t reveal anything you’re about to see, right?” 

  
“Of course.” 

  
“Obviously Magnussen’s death means his victims are free; they have no more obligations. I don’t want this to start up again in the wrong hands.” 

  
“I would never—” 

  
“Not you. Mycroft.” 

  
“Really?” Not that Molly trusted him either, but this seemed a bit much. 

  
“There are secrets of political party members in here,” Janine said. “And I know Mycroft doesn’t like some of them. I don’t want these secrets to be used against them.”

  
“I won’t tell him anything,” Molly promised, but then she thought of something. “Well, hold on…are any of these secrets criminal?” 

  
“That’s the second part.” Janine pressed her lips together. “There are some absolute monsters in these records. I want to bring them to justice, but…isn’t that the same kind of wrong?” 

  
Molly stared at her. 

  
“Please understand that part of me knows that was a stupid thing to say,” Janine said quickly. “It’s just—I know my moral compass has been fucked up. Blackmail’s so bad, and I want to feel sorry for the victims, but…” 

  
“Magnussen did the wrong thing,” Molly answered. “He should have turned those people into the police, especially if he had evidence. He chose to make money off of them, and off letting their crimes go unsolved. We can turn them in for sure.” 

  
Janine took a deep breath. “Thank you. I know it’s stupid, but—” 

  
“Trusting yourself is the first thing a psychopath takes from you,” Molly replied. She put a hand on Janine’s. “You’ll be okay.” 

  
“Cheers, Molls.” Janine patted Molly’s hand, and then drew away gently. 

  
Then Molly thought of something. “Hold on, you said Magnussen didn’t have much evidence because all of it was in his mind palace, right?” 

  
“True. But I had to keep records of payment, and I had codes for what the secrets were. Magnussen wanted to keep track of that to make sure that he had some backup in case he was unavailable. I can’t tell you exactly what their crime was, but we can figure out who might be linked to Moriarty as well by dates and maybe by what kinds of crimes.”

Janine bit her lip and then sighed. “It’s a long shot in some ways, but having a complete inventory is going to help.”

  
“Especially once we link through Moriarty’s Network.” 

  
Janine nodded. “So here, I can give you my code dictionary. Can you put a mark next to people that we’re not interested in? I’ve got to contact them to let them know that not only are there going to be no more payments, but I’m going to try and give them back their money.” 

**Janine's Code Dictionary: **

Infidelity = IN  
Child Molestation = CM  
Change of Identity = CI  
Spousal Abuse = SA  
Child Abuse = CA  
Embezzlement = EM  
Faking Death = FD  
Murder = M  
Attempted Murder = AM  
Inappropriate Relationships (Consenting Adults but power imbalance) = IR  
Cheating on something other than partner or money = C  
Secret Child/Family = SC/SF  
Involvement with Drugs = ID  
Involvement with Gangs/Mafia = IG/IM  
Sensitive Pictures/Letters/Emails = SP/SL/SE  
Other Criminal Past = CP

Molly raised her eyebrows. “That’s…that’s a lot of different kinds of blackmail.” 

  
“Look at the folders for each one,” Janine said. 

  
Molly clicked on the Infidelity one and gasped It was a spreadsheet with endless rows of names, addresses, payment amounts and dates.

  
“This is going to take a while,” Janine said with a grimace.

  
Molly took a deep breath, took a large drink of water, and began to scroll. “Are there any significant days I should be looking for?” she asked. 

  
Janine smacked her forehead. “Yes, of course, sorry. They’re in the notebooks.” 

  
Molly opened the first one, blanching as she saw the same kinds of numbers as in the spreadsheets, with several highlighted rows. 

  
Those notebooks have every day I worked for Charles Magnussen in them,” Janine explained. “You can see the symbols are there. I highlighted the ones where Magnussen was either out of the office or had a visitor. When I first started working I just buzzed people in; I wasn’t allowed to see them, so I have no idea who they were. They’ve got stars beside them, see?” 

  
Molly did see. “So why highlight them?” 

  
Janine blushed. “I know that I write stupidly small, and I thought that might help.” 

  
“I write smaller than you,” Molly answered. “So that’s fine. But I do appreciate it; I can organize things better.” 

  
Janine nodded. “Okay. Let’s start digging through this country’s dirty laundry.” 

* * *

  
Three hours later, Molly slammed the lid of the laptop shut. “I can’t look at this for another minute.”  
Janine did the same. “We need a break. Do you want to have a nap?” 

  
“Actually…” Molly hesitated. It was childish, of course, but it did help her when she was exhausted and strained. “We could have a dance?”

  
“What?”

“Sometimes when I’ve been at the morgue on a double, or I’m doing training modules for too long, I just stop and turn on stupid loud music and dance about. I have to make sure the doors are closed at the morgue, though.” Thankfully the only person to walk in on her was Mike Stamford, who hadn’t laughed. 

“You know I can’t really dance, Molls. You were at the wedding too.” 

“That’s not the point though, is it? It’s just about letting your body move without thinking too hard."

Janine smiled. “Alright. What should we listen to?” 

“I usually just put on some top 40 station and go,” Molly replied. “Have you got a wireless, or—” 

Janine switched on the telly. “Let’s do it this way.” 

Molly laughed when she saw the music video playing. “Excellent. Milady?” 

Janine did a truly dreadful curtsy, and then grabbed Molly’s hands and started spinning her around to that stupid, wonderful Bruno Mars song. 

Neither of them were good dancers, but Molly had a better sense of rhythm than Janine, and so she led their quick attempt at fast waltzing. It felt good to be dancing with someone else, especially someone who didn’t think she was barking mad. 

Finally, exhausted, they both fell back into their seats. Janine’s bun had come undone, and Molly was out of breath. 

They were both happy. 

“Right,” Janine said. “We’re doing that again in three hours, but first we need to do some more work.” 

Two hours later, Molly finished scribbling down some notes and sighed. “I haven’t found much, I’m afraid. Infidelity seems clear, and there are no dates that pop out.” 

“That makes sense,” Janine said. “Infidelity is usually straightforward; there’s not a lot of criminality involved with getting proof. It was a long shot, but good to check.” Then her eyes lit up. “Hold on, what about incidents involving Irene Adler?” 

Molly shook her head. “Sherlock and Mycroft have all the data from her, that’s why I’ve put aside some cases here.” 

“Is she dead?” Janine asked. 

“No,” Molly answered. “When Sherlock left London, he went to her first. He helped her fake her death, it was time she returned the favour.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.” 

“It’s a long and stupid one,” Molly replied. The words tasted bitter on her tongue.

“Another time, then.” Janine leaned back. “I have a couple of possibilities.” 

Molly’s breath quickened. “What makes them possibilities?” 

“One of them is a retired fence, and they were always in on the days Moriarty was there. The other is Lucy Gene Trivald.” 

“The one who writes all those gardening books?” 

Janine nodded. “She’s listed as SC, so there’s a kid involved. Magnussen was always careful with those ones, because someone could panic and kill the child. He always brought in “diplomatic” help.” 

“So he wants to prevent child murder but he’s fine with molestation and abuse?” 

“I asked him that six years ago.” Janine slumped. “He just told me that if the issue was over and done, there was no point getting involved.” 

“How did you deal with that?” 

“Do you think I wanted to?!” Janine snapped. “You don’t know what it was like—there was nothing I could—” 

“No, I don’t mean that,” Molly said quickly. “I don’t know what it was like at all. And I had—I’ve made some hard choices too. I just mean…how did you deal with it? How could you cope with an impossible situation?” 

Janine laced her fingers together. “I drank a lot, and when that didn’t do anything for me, I started cocaine. I was high for two years at work—that’s why I don’t remember all of these records. Finally Magnussen told me I could go to rehab, or I could go work as a foreign agent. I took rehab and went away for six months. He paid for it, I’ll give him that, and I came back. Then…honestly, then I knew Mary. That saved my life, because I remembered there are still good people in the world.” She ran her hands through her hair. “I told John a few months ago that Magnussen had nothing on me. He didn’t…other than his last P.A. Her name was Thea. She led a blameless, single life too. She quit, and she died. I thought that maybe…maybe when I could do something, I’d be able to help, but there was no way to do that if I was dead.” 

Molly reached over and took her hand. “You’re doing something now,you know. I’m proud of you.” 

“Thanks, Molls.” Janine squeezed her hand. “Right—we need to send emails to everyone we’ve checked so far, just to let them know that there will be no more payments. We’ll go see Mrs. Trivald and the fence in person.” 

Molly started to let go of Janine’s hand, but then she thought of something. “First things first,” she said, pulling Janine to her feet. “It’s time for another dance.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting. Next chapter will be up on time!  
Cheers,  
Acme


	8. Hudson's Homes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha Hudson reflects on the past as she prepares for the future.   
CW: Past murder, discussion of the death penalty, drug cartel activities.

Mrs. Hudson wasn’t blind or inexperienced when it came to covert operations. Living with Frank had taught her better than that. 

Not that his execution really came as a surprise to her. She knew all about the cartel; Frank had been so honest with her the night before they were married. “Martha darling, I’m a bad man, but I’ll take good care of you, and I’ll make any concessions you want.” 

So they sat down together and made a list of Martha’s “hard limits”. No murder; no dealing to children; no having children of their own unless they were out of the crime business; no infidelity; no turning on each other; no going to bed angry; central air in every house they lived in. 

And for fifteen years Frank kept every promise to the letter. They were successful, they had a strong bond with their employees (Frank wasn’t one to use force or fear), and Martha was happy. Maybe she would have been happier back in England with her family and friends, without the constant fear of one bright detective ruining everything they built…but she didn’t know that. Martha was happy there, happy with Frank, and that’s all that mattered. 

And then the day came where Martha found out that Frank had betrayed the list. Not just one item either, and not one at a time. No, Martha came upon a notebook, the same kind of clothbound notebook Frank used for everything. She started to type it out as usual, but before she was finished with the first page she was crying too hard to see anything. 

There were names of women listed there with meeting times (times Martha thought Frank was meeting with other members of the cartel), there were diagrams showing routes of distribution going straight by playgrounds and schools, and there were two names. Jacob and Leroy. 

They were top members in the cartel; Martha was friends with their wives, was the godmother to Leroy’s young daughter. Martha hadn’t heard from them in two weeks.   
In fact, she hadn’t heard from them since the day before the date scrawled above their names. 

Martha knew what she had to do. She had to break a rule on the list. So she emailed a ‘bright detective’, a man she’d heard about through her sister Susan (the only family member who bothered to keep in touch after fifteen years in Florida). 

And Sherlock came, and he swept up the cartel, managing to get immunity for her in exchange for her passing over everything. The only people who survived were Jacob and Leroy’s wives and Leroy’s daughter, who faded into the background. Martha wanted to help them, but Sherlock insisted (quite rightly) that she needed to get away. She left a letter, and that was all she could do. And if that letter contained a link to a bank account with more than enough to support all three of them for years…well, Martha had her own such bank account. Deciding to break wholly with the past, she didn’t even go to see Frank until she’d bought Baker Street and started to order furniture for the flats.   
Frank wasn’t angry with her, which almost made it worse. 

He was two days away from electrocution, and he still smiled at her that same old way. “I fucked up, Martha,” he said, holding her hands in his manacled ones. “I promised to treat you well, and I didn’t.I deserve all of this just for that. I am more sorry than I can ever tell you.” 

“Why?” was all Martha could say. “Fifteen years and nothing, and then—” 

“I suppose you might call it a mid-life crisis. I guess I wanted to test what I could get away with, and I started with you. It was cruel and unfair. Promise to try and be happy, okay? I know it’ll be hard to do that after I’ve hurt you, but I truly hope you find a proper family, and someone who won’t break so many promises.” 

Now Martha Hudson (still Hudson, no matter what) stood in the basement flat she owned, looking at two of those new family members, and she was ready. Ready this time to protect them at any cost, by any means necessary. Greg and Molly might be more vocal about what they were willing to do to Moriarty, but Martha knew how to hide caches and people. A body couldn’t be that different. 

“How many people are coming, Sherlock?” was all she asked. 

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, one of three strewn across the table. “Twenty all together, but they won’t all come at once.” 

“Makes sense.” 

“Then there’ll be about a hundred people listening in through phones—I believe it’s five per each zone, correct?” 

John nodded. He was working on a large map of London, sticking pins of various colours in. There were thin red strings crisscrossing the black and white map, marking out the ‘zones’ of the Homeless Network. 

“And we’re sure that these phones are secure?” 

“Big brother says so.” 

“Are the people secure?” 

Sherlock looked up again. “If they aren’t there’s no hope for us.” His jaw twitched as he spoke. 

A hundred then. Twice the size of the cartel (at least the side Martha dealt with). Certainly easy enough to deal with.

Wiggins knocked on the doorframe before entering. “Good morning, ma’am. I’ve brought some people to see the flat.” 

There were three with him—one Mrs. Hudson recognized as Ty, who was holding hands with a gaunt Indian woman named Rina. The third was new; they were so heavily bundled that Mrs. Hudson couldn’t tell what age they were. 

“This is Harry, Mrs. Hudson,” Ty explained. Their hands were bare,and Harry’s gloves were far too big. “He’s our resident arsonist.” 

“There’ll be none of that in this flat,” Mrs. Hudson said sharply. 

A quiet laugh came from inside the bundle. Arms flailed for a moment, then unwrapped the bundle, and a child of no more than fifteen emerged, his grin bright. 

“Ty’s being generous,” he said. “I just know how to light trash fires in stiff winds.” 

Mrs. Hudson’s heart twisted. “How old are you?” 

“I’m twenty-five.” 

“Sorry, what? I thought you were—well, maybe seventeen at most!” 

Harry pumped his fist. “Hurrah, I can pull this off without hormones! I just look like a kid doing it.” 

“Oh, I see. Well, you’ll find that comes in handy when you’re my age.” 

Harry grinned. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock’s told us a lot about you.” 

The doorbell rang, and Sherlock’s phone chimed. He stood. “There’s two coming in the kitchen window,” he tossed over his shoulder, “and our delivery’s here.” 

The delivery people introduced themselves as Sasha and Arthur, and the box they lugged in had a TV on the front but contained another person. Lily was her name, and her eyes were sharp as broken glass in a too-thin face.

“She’s actually seventeen,” Harry confided. “Bright as anything; I think she’s going somewhere.” 

Mrs. Hudson took notes of the names, took notes of the stories—all in her head, but she could remember plenty of details. It wouldn’t do to be typing the entire meeting.   
All too soon, the room was full of people, and Sherlock had a phone set up on speaker. Ty stood next to Sherlock, their hands raised.

Mrs. Hudson shot a quick look at the crowd, and spotted a young boy with his eyes fixed on Ty. He wore no implant, but the way he seemed calm despite the chatter around him made Mrs. Hudson suspect he was the one who was hard of hearing. 

“Are we ready to begin?” Mrs. Hudson asked as casually as she could. 

Sherlock glanced at John, who nodded. Sherlock clapped his hands, and the crowd fell silent. 

“I want to thank you for being here this morning,” Sherlock said. “You’ve all seen what happened yesterday. Moriarty is back, and London is in danger again. It’s a reasonable assumption that he will set his sights upon myself and anyone associated with me. So I need to ask—does anyone want to leave? The more you know now, the more of a target you make yourself. You can leave the same way you came, and no one will stop you or blame you.” 

No one moved, and Mrs. Hudson smiled. “You’re all very brave,” she said. It came out without her quite being ready for it. Not ready for all the eyes turning to her, all the people waiting for her to continue. “I’m not sure how many of you were involved last—last time.” 

“All of us here, ma’am,” Harry said politely. “I was just a kid, but I remember. Well, I suppose everyone except Lily.”

“I was alive during it,” Lily growled. “I was just still living at home.” 

“Then you know that it’s frightening,” Mrs. Hudson said. “All of us are scared—or at the very least we should all be. Moriarty is dangerous, and he has a lot of practice with being in control. He’ll move to regain that control as quickly as he can, which is why we have to move now.” 

John nodded. “Exactly. We’ve got others working to make sure he’s not connecting with any old associates in London, and I just spoke to my wife. It seems that London is currently Moriarty-Web-free, but there are still plenty of criminals in this city. I’m sure that plenty of them would be willing to join up with someone who just came back from the fucking grave.” 

“Unfortunately that isn’t quite true, John,” Sherlock replied. “He was never dead.” 

Sherlock pointed to the wall behind him at the map covered in pins. 

“Right now there are three things we need to do. In the first place, we need to watch the yellow zones. These areas have crime issues, and if they get worse, that’s a sign that Moriarty is there. Second place, we need to find Moriarty’s current hideaway. Thirdly, we need to make sure all of you have secure places to go during a crisis.” There was a beat of silence, and then he added “obviously those were not stated in priority. There’s just not as much work left to do for that part.” 

“What do you mean?” Lily snapped. “None of us have safe places to go.” 

“You will now,” John said gently. “Mrs. Hudson and I spent the morning working on that.” He gestured to the map. “You see these green points? These are safe houses. Well, most of them are safe office buildings.” 

“Brother dear owns a lot of real estate,” Sherlock continued. “These are office complexes, and you’ll all have access to all of them. They’ll have cots, some food, showers…they’re not good for long term living, but they should hold twenty people comfortably for up to a week.” 

Harry raised his hand. “No offense, but why can’t we stay in those all the time?” 

Sherlock blinked. “That’s what I meant. You can live there during this investigation. But we’ll be asking you to do other work outside, so you may not be in the same area as the base you choose. If you get the signal, you’ve got to drop everything and go to the nearest one. You’ll get a second signal when everyone’s inside the safe places, and then you need to bar the door and stay put until you’ve got an all clear. You’re all valuable operatives, and we’re putting a lot of trust in you. We want to take care of you.” 

_He’s come so far. _

“So what happens when all this is over?” Ty asked, still signing. “Are we back to the streets?” 

“I’m sure we can come up with a more permanent solution in the meantime,” Mrs. Hudson interrupted. That hadn’t been discussed at all, but it was one of her ideas, an idea that was too long in coming. “One of the safe places is here, actually, in this basement flat. It’s been treated for damp, and there’s room for ten if people don’t mind sharing rooms. I’m sure we can arrange something.” 

Harry nodded. Everyone else was quiet. 

“All that remains for that is deciding where to put everyone for a home base, and signing you all in,” Sherlock said. “That’ll take the better part of an hour, but it isn’t vital. What is going to be vital is finding Moriarty’s hideout. He’ll be in the city, because he’s going to need to see people face to face so that they actually believe he’s back. Criminals aren’t as fond of ghosts.” 

“How on earth do you expect us to find him?” 

Sherlock pointed at the map again. “We know some parameters, and we know where he isn’t. Actually, we can do that and assign yellow zone patrols at the same time. So everyone gather around. It’s time to set up patrols.” 

It took close to two hours, but everyone left the flat (and hung up the phone) knowing their assignments, headed off to their safe houses. Harry, Lily, and eight others stayed. 

“You’re going to stay here,” Mrs. Hudson said. She opened the door to the rest of the flat. For a basement flat, it wasn’t shabby. A good sized kitchen, another sitting room, two good-sized bedrooms. The cots were set up with a footlocker at the end of each one. 

“There’s groceries in there, and I want you to feel at home here. As far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.” 

“We don’t need charity,” Lily snapped. 

“Lily we literally survive on charity.” 

“It’s not going to be charity,” Mrs. Hudson explained. “I bought these flats using money made in my husband’s cartel before he murdered our friends. You’ll be doing me a favour.” 

Harry and Lily exchanged looks. 

“Can we play music?” Harry asked at last. 

“Of course. So long as it’s not too loud. Now, come and sit down. I’ll make you some tea, just this once. I’m not your housekeeper…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up approximately 98% of the backstory here...but that other 2% comes into play later on.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	9. Cop Teams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets his people together, and the police work begins.

“Right,” Greg started. “Is everyone clear on what we’re doing here?” 

“I’m not sure what _she’s_ doing here,” Elliot Dimmock grumbled, glaring at Sally.   
Greg wanted to snap at him—_you use names when talking about someone, not pronouns_—but he could honestly understand Elliot’s anger. Sally, after all, had shown very little remorse after Sherlock’s death. She’d acknowledged she was wrong after the investigation proved it, but she’d been cantankerous and snippy at every mention of Sherlock since his return. 

  
The fact that John hadn’t punched her in the face was solely due to Greg ensuring that the two didn’t cross paths. 

  
“Sally is here because she’s part of this team,” Greg answered. “And because we’re all on the same team, we’re going to be good to each other.” He looked at Sally, who glared back mutinously. “We need to remember that we’re trying to foil the return of one of the most dangerous crime lords that’s ever preyed on Great Britain. Personal problems can’t be in the way. Or I’ll start sending you all to bed without supper.” 

  
Sally ran her hands through her hair. “Fine,” she snapped. “I’m not working with _him_ though.” 

  
“_Sherlock_ isn’t going to be working with us. He and John are running down other leads independently.” 

  
“Good. Then we can get going.” 

  
Stan Hopkins raised his hand. “Er, sir? If Moriarty is so dangerous, is there anything we can really do?” 

  
The boy—Dimmock’s cousin, young and starry-eyed still—was new to this. His shirt didn’t fit at all around his narrow shoulders, and he kept looking between Greg and Philip Anderson and his cousin, as if unsure who to support. 

  
“I know this is a lot,” Greg said, keeping his tone gentle. “I know that it’s intimidating. You’ve read the files on our investigation, right?” 

  
“Yes sir.” 

  
“Good lad. I’m not going to lie to any of you—this is huge, and I’m scared. But we’ve got a plan, and right now we have to do our part.” 

“How does finding out who he was when he was young help us?” 

“Sally, want to take that one?” Greg asked. 

Sally sighed. “Part of the reason that Moriarty was able to—well, able to get Sherlock out of London was that the story of Richard Brook was…compelling. Part of it was professional incredulity.” 

Greg looked at her sharply. 

“I can admit that, Greg,” Sally replied. “I didn’t want to believe that Sherlock was for real because I…well, I hated that he was so much better than me. Mostly because he’s such a—” 

“Watch it, Donovan.” That was his rule installed for his peace of mind after Sherlock fell. No bad talking about Sherlock. 

“Well—then I thought he might have hurt those kids, and I just—I stopped thinking about the bigger picture. And the Richard Brook line made sense. And even after a couple hours of digging, I couldn’t find anything wrong with the story. It took two years to pull it apart completely.” 

“So he put a lot of work into Richard Brook, that makes sense. It needed to hold up.” 

“But there’s more than that.” Sally brushed her hair out of her face. “We found records of James Moriarty beginning in 2009, but there’s nothing before that. We looked in some international databases, but the only hits we got were after that time. He’s a ghost before then, and we ran down every possible lead.” 

“So maybe there’s something in the past that he really needed to hide?” Hopkins asked. 

“Exactly, Stan,” Greg answered. “After all, he was acting as a legitimate person for a few years before he and Sherlock started butting heads—you need records for that, make sure there’s nothing suspicious. But we can’t find a damn thing, so whatever truth there is in him, it’s hidden. When we thought he was dead it was enough to prove Richard Brook was a lie, but now we have to prove Moriarty.” 

“Where the hell do we start with that?” Sally asked. “We already did so much digging.” 

“We’re going to start in three different places, actually.” Greg went to the whiteboard. “Sally, I want you and Elliott to work on the Carl Powers case. We know Moriarty killed him, and he was only a kid then. There’s got to be something there.” 

“How old was he?” 

“We’re not sure about that either. Definitely not a classmate, but they knew each other. Start running things down.”

“Wouldn’t that be something Moriarty’s taken care of covering up?” Anderson asked. “After all, John wrote about that case on his blog.”

“That’s why you and Stan are going to looking through the notes from the Richard Brook case,” Greg replied. “If every disguise is a self-portrait, there must be something of Moriarty in him. Build a complete profile of Richard Brook as if he was real, and then break down the inconsistencies.” Greg gestured to two of the laptops Mycroft had dropped off at his flat the night before. “All of the notes are on those.” 

Stan whistled. “Those are fancy.” 

“They’re decent laptops. You should be able to run any analysis you can think of. Elliot, Sally, you’ve got tablet versions for when you’re in the field. Make sure you sync everything; there’s no need for USB sticks.” 

“Big Brother?” Philip asked. 

“Oh yes.” 

“So what’s the third thing?” Sally asked. 

Greg stepped away from the whiteboard and towards his own laptop. “I get the fun job. I’m going through every case Moriarty’s been linked to ever, and see if there are any leads through them. When you lot send me reports, I can integrate them.” 

Stan’s eyes went wide. “How many are there?” 

“It’s looking like 3,000 at the moment.” 

“Oh, excellent.” Sally looked at him skeptically. “Are you sure that can’t be narrowed down?” 

“It already has been.” Mycroft had apologized three times, but he had to deal with the more complicated international cases. Greg gestured around the room. “I’ve got this room and it’s just for us. No one else is working in here. We’re going to get food regularly while we’re here, and the door will be locked. Right now we’re not sure of Moriarty’s plan, and until we do we need to keep ourselves safe. We’re no use to London dead.” 

The team looked unsure, all except Stan, who looked excited. 

“We’re behind on this already,” Greg said at last. “We can’t afford to fall further behind because of pointless delays or arguments. Understood? We have to be a team.” 

One by one the others nodded. 

“Then let’s get started,” Greg said. “We need to nail this fucker before he does anymore damage.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who have read my 'Sleeping on It' stories might recognize my characterization of Stan Hopkins :) Kitty won't be appearing in this story, at least not in the way she did in that one.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	10. The Opportune Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian's been waiting a long time for this moment. But snipers are patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi-explicit sex in this chapter, and casual references to murder.

Sebastian Moran sat down on the li-lo in the gloomy bedsit and waited. 

He was always good at that—you had to be if you were a sniper. Unlike the warriors on the front line who could create their own action, a sniper needed to wait for one opportune moment. 

But what was the opportune moment tonight? He was in one of London’s many quiet streets, up four sets of stairs to a stranger’s room. There was nothing in here to suggest that anyone called this place home, though someone certainly lived here. The bed was turned down, there were groceries in the fridge, and a lamp was left on, ready for someone to walk in wearily, make some tea, and then go to bed, perhaps with some biscuits. 

The only reason he was there at all was a text he’d waited nearly three years to get. Come, and an address. It was all he needed to come out of “hiding”—more like inactivity—and come straight back to London. 

He’d been in Glasgow three hours ago, so he’d made good time. He wasn’t sure if it was faster than expectations, or slower, or right on time. There were no new texts, no kind of activity. 

So he waited. 

Sebastian’s hands were tingling, just a bit. Knowing there was a survivor of the rooftop all these years was one thing, but he hadn’t seen Jim in that entire time. He wanted to go out and find him, but there was no way he would disobey orders. There would be consequences, and Sebastian did not want to start a reunion with consequences. 

His phone vibrated and he nearly jumped out of his skin. 

_I’m coming up. _

Oh. Oh dear. There’s no way that was true. Suddenly three years wasn’t long enough, he hadn’t prepared himself enough. It was too hard to contain his excitement, too hard to find his control. 

He was supposed to be an amoral, emotionless killer. He wasn’t supposed to feel giddiness in his chest as he heard footsteps down the hall. 

_Let me in. _

Sebastian took a deep breath, pushed his emotions down as far as they would go, and got up and opened the door. 

Jim Moriarty, looking tired and a bit older than when they last spoke, still wearing a ridiculously poncy suit, stood in front of him. Sebastian stepped aside to let him come in, and he did so without a word. 

Sebastian made no move to turn on the other lights, so they stared at each other in the dim lamplight, wondering what had changed in each other in so long, wondering where they stood. It was the first time Sebastian had ever seen Jim lost for words. 

“Fuck, Seb, I’ve missed you.” 

And that was the opportune moment, and Sebastian swooped in and kissed him, kissed him like he’d wanted to so many times before, just to get him to bloody well shut up already. And Jim was kissing back, and there was no real affection in Jim’s hands fisted in his hair, and Seb wasn’t gentle as he started yanking off clothing, but they were never gentle or affectionate. They didn’t love each other; they certainly weren’t in love. But sure as fuck there was need and desire and a patent acknowledgment that they were each other’s one big choice. So even now, the first time they ever fucked, when Sebastian slammed Moriarty into the bed, yanking a bottle of lube from his gun bag, there was no kindness. The true delight came from relief, from connection at last, and from being together again. 

They didn’t need love. They had each other. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I'm sorry, but this pairing is mildly important for the rest of the story. But it's not going to be tagged...you'll see why.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	11. Somewhat Happy Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a quiet day in January, but John manages to make it special for Sherlock anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna say this up front: I looked up how dog tags work in the military, this is one of the things I read, I'm not 100% sure if it's right. If it's not, just pretend!

Sherlock woke up on his 36th birthday feeling ill. 

It wasn’t an illness John could cure, of course—it was an illness stemming from his nightmares. They were formless now, and trying to remember specifics brought only nausea and despair. It wasn’t surprising, but it was unpleasant. 

This was how he’d woken up every day while he was away, so sick and fearful, helpless in his dreams and almost the same level in reality. 

At least this morning was different, because he could hear John making tea in the kitchen. 

Dressing was too much work, so Sherlock just pulled on his dressing gown and went outside. John was also in a dressing gown, and he looked up with a weary smile at Sherlock.   
“Morning.” 

Sherlock nodded and went looking for mugs. 

He set two down just as the kettle finished, and John dropped in the tea bags and poured the water. They moved to the sitting room and sat down in silence. There was already a plate of toast on the table between them, still hot. 

“What are we doing today?” John asked. 

“Right now we’re going to have to sit and wait,” Sherlock answered bitterly. “There’s nothing we can do right now without knowing exactly where to go. His Highness has made his orders clear.” 

“Considering that Moriarty has no problem having snipers follow people around for two years, that seems like a decent idea.” John grabbed a piece of toast. 

“Have you spoken to Mary today?” 

John nodded, mouth still full. “Texts,” he said once he’d swallowed. “She and Mycroft are working on more cases. They haven’t turned up much yet. Molly’s also called in. They have a couple of cases to look into, but they’re trying to find as many as they can before they start out."

“Right.” Sherlock sipped his tea. “Well, if we’re inside today do you want to watch crap telly?” 

“Sure,” John said. He grinned. “You can choose, after all.” 

“Sorry?” 

“It’s your birthday?” 

Sherlock blinked. “I never told you that.” 

“You’re not the only person who can track down a birth certificate, Sherlock.” 

“You asked my mother.” 

“Your dad, actually.” John reached behind him and handed him a medium-sized wrapped box. 

“You didn’t have to get me anything.” 

“I know. Open it, you git.” 

Sherlock pulled off the wrapping paper and opened the box. “You absolute—” 

“Don’t be ungrateful,” John said, grinning like the smug git he was. 

Inside the box was an intricately drawn painting of the solar system. 

“I’m just going to delete it,” Sherlock warned. 

“Well I hope not, I spent ages on it.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he took the small canvas out. The brushwork was careful, and the level of detail was quite remarkable. “You painted this?” 

John nodded. “Well, there were a lot of—long nights, you know. And I thought it would be nice for you to have a reference. I didn’t finish it in time for Christmas—” 

“Ah, that’s why you got me bedsocks. I thought that was a little uninspired.” 

“So that’s why you’ve worn them more than once?” 

Sherlock glared at him. “My feet were cold in jail.” 

“You were in jail for twenty minutes and then Mycroft bailed you out here.” 

“Regardless.” Sherlock examined the planets more closely. “I suppose it will fit on my bureau.” 

“There’s more to the present,” John said quietly. 

Indeed there was, something still smaller wrapped carefully in cloth, edges tucked in. John wasn’t sure about this one. 

Sherlock took it out and unwrapped it. Then he went still. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Why are you giving me these?” Sherlock drew out John’s dog tags. “Is this—John, what are you doing?” 

“Nothing,” John said quickly. “Honestly. I just thought—well, I thought they might bring you some luck.” 

“Superstition in you, doctor?” 

“I still had them both when I woke up in hospital,” John answered. 

Sherlock turned them over in his hand. 

“When someone dies, you’re supposed to take one, and leave the other with—with the body. That way identification can happen as quickly as possible, and there’s no mix up. I should have died that day, Sherlock. I was out in the open, there were shots all around me, and I was badly wounded. It almost hit an artery, you know? It wouldn’t have mattered in a few moments. But bloody Bill Murray came out and brought me back, and the stubborn bastard was so sure I was going to live he didn’t even unclip one from the chain.” John looked down. “I needed help that day, and I got it; I have both of those to remind me of that. I suppose I want—I want you to know that you don’t have to be alone in this. You never had to be, but I know you felt otherwise.” 

“It wasn’t a question of trust, John. Or sentiment.” 

“I know that now. But no matter what, you’ve got those now. You don’t have to wear them or anything, just…I hope whatever luck they have works for you.” 

Sherlock slipped the chain over his head. “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” 

He caught a flash of John’s smile as he sipped his tea busily. 

“Am I forgiven for the solar system?” 

“Not quite yet.”

“Mrs. Hudson is making cake.” 

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. 

“We can’t have everyone here, and there’s a murderous psychopath on the loose,” John said as he stood up. “But you’re going to have cake on your birthday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed Sherlock's birthday gifts!  
Cheers,  
Acme


	12. Clear the Late Night Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's working late, and gets a very late apology.   
And something else...

Greg fiddled with the box of cigarettes in his pocket and sighed. It was past two in the morning, Moriarty had been back for a week, and he still had nothing. 

“You should go home, sir,” Stan said hesitantly. “You’ve been here all day.” 

Greg raised his eyebrows at the constable. “I’m fine, Stan.” 

“Are you sure?” Stan pressed. 

“No,” Greg said with a sigh. “No, I’m not sure. But I can tell you that me being at home isn’t going to make me more fine. You need to get home, Stan. You’re an hour past your shift.” 

“I’m willing to stay.” 

“That’s an order, Stan. Go on.” 

Stan stood up reluctantly. It took him nearly five minutes to leave the room entirely; he kept straightening papers, glancing at the computers, and fiddling with his shirt. His uniform still didn’t fit properly, and it kept slipping up his stomach to expose his binder. 

“I’ll get you a new shirt in the morning, lad,” Greg promised. He kept meaning to. “Now get on home. You’ve done a good day’s work.” 

Stan finally left, not before flicking the coffee maker on again. Greg was grateful for the help, he really was, but he needed a few moments to be alone with his thoughts, here where he could find the answer to the problem, if inspiration struck. 

Not that it was likely to strike at two in the morning after a fourteen hour shift. 

Greg buried his face in his hands. He was damn tired of all of this. First Sherlock was back, and then John’s wife turned out to be some kind of reformed assassin, and now Moriarty was back. And Greg didn’t know if he could take anything else. 

He’d grieved on his own for two years, with little contact with anyone else who knew Sherlock. He’d run into John once or twice, and Anderson kept trying to get drinks, but Greg had held the grief and guilt close to himself, selfishly. 

No matter what Sherlock said, no matter what John said, Greg knew he’d played a part in Sherlock’s Fall. He hadn’t believe Sally’s accusations, but he’d gone to arrest Sherlock anyways. He knew that Sherlock had contributed to Scotland Yard in major ways, but he hadn’t stood up for him. He knew that Moriarty was a real person—fuck, he’d seen the aftermath of the night at the pool, with John shaking in Sherlock’s arms. 

_Sherlock was trembling that night too. They’d called about what happened and Greg had dashed over, leaving his wife again in the middle of the night (she left him all the time so he didn’t really feel guilty). _

_John and Sherlock were both wrapped in shock blankets, holding half-full mugs of warm tea. Mrs. Hudson was hovering over them anxiously. _

_“What happened?” Greg asked. “Are you two hurt?” _

_“No. Someone called Moriarty.” It was all John got out before he dropped the cup and buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. _

_It was the first night Greg understood the rumours. As far as he knew, the two of them had never hugged, but the way John melted against Sherlock, an arm around the detective’s shoulders, was more intimate than Greg saw most people, in love or not. _

_The story came out in bits and pieces, with interjections of horror from Mrs. Hudson. Greg waited until they were finished, and asked the only question that mattered. _

_“What do you need from me?” _

_Sherlock looked up, and his normally keen eyes were glassy. “I suppose we need to make a police report. Not that there’s much point.”_

_Greg wasn’t even insulted; if Moriarty had nearly trapped Sherlock, he was definitely beyond the Yard’s reach. For now. “Are you safe?” He asked. _

_“Mycroft’s minions have been around. No one’s been in the flat, and we’re alright. The windows are being replaced with bulletproof glass.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Big brother’s being paranoid.” _

_ “Your best mate was tied to enough Semtex to blow up a street and you were both nearly killed by snipers in a public pool,” Greg snapped. “I’d say that’s a healthy level of paranoia.” He softened his tone. “Are you going to be alright tonight?” _

_ It was very clear both of them wanted to answer yes. It was also very clear that neither of them would mean it. _

_ “Come on,” Greg said, snatching up the remote. “This time of night is perfect for American crap telly.” _

_ They watched ridiculous shows and drank tea for nearly two hours. Finally, John fell asleep against Sherlock, but Sherlock stayed awake. _

_ Greg muted the telly. “Right, what is it?” _

_ He half-expected Sherlock not to answer—he was always so private when he wasn’t high—but Sherlock did. _

_ “I thought he was Moriarty.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “When John first stepped out, I…his speech was much less stilted than the others. I thought he might be…he might actually be Moriarty. And then he showed the vest.” _

_ “Oh. That must have been difficult for you.” _

_ Sherlock’s lip trembled. “I thought it was all—that he wasn’t real. That I’d trusted ,that I’d—” he cut himself off. _

_ “That you’d fallen in love with him,” Greg said. _

_ Sherlock’s head snapped up, wild fright in his eyes. “I’m not—” _

_ “Yes you are. Can’t believe I didn’t see it until tonight.” _

_ “I don’t want to be,” Sherlock whispered. “He’s not in love with me. And I don’t really understand if this is being in love, or if it’s just that I care about him more than other people... No offense, you're still important.” _

_ “None taken,” Greg said. There was a little squeeze in his heart—he honestly hadn’t realized Sherlock cared about him at all. “Well…mate, I’m not sure what you should do.” _

_ “I already have a plan.” _

_ “Oh yes? It doesn’t involve cutting him out of your life, does it? Because that’s not safe. For either of you.” _

_ “No. I—I couldn’t. But I can give him…whatever he needs from me. He doesn’t need me being in love with him.” _

_ “Are you sure about that?” _

_ “Very.” _

Greg shook his head, remembering how the conversation had gone on for another ten minutes, with him trying to persuade Sherlock to tell John. Tell him that he felt it was love, and that John was a good man, and he would never hurt Sherlock or be cruel to him. But Sherlock was stubborn, and Greg had given up. 

When he heard about Sherlock’s suicide, the first thing he thought was ‘no way in Hell’. The second one was ‘this is my fault’. And the third, a very close third, was ‘he should have told John’. Maybe that would have kept Sherlock alive. 

He never told John that, though. He did his best to help John with the funeral, endured the screaming accusations and the broken sobs that followed, and then stepped away when John made it clear that he needed to be alone. 

And that was what Greg did too. The next two years were hellish—staying all day and most of the night at work, battling with his colleagues and the press, snatching sleep whenever he could. He would have killed for someone he trusted to go and get drinks. Hell, even sitting on the sofa at home in total silence would have been fine, as long as there was someone breathing beside him. He thought of getting a dog or a cat, but he wasn’t home enough for that. He didn’t want to make another living creature miserable. 

But he didn’t want to be with anyone who knew his grief, because the ones who did knew his guilt.

Greg sighed and rubbed his face. There had to be something in these files, something that he could find. 

As he scooted his chair closer to the table, he heard footsteps coming down the hall. 

“For Christ’s sake, Hopkins, get out of it!” 

“Wasn’t it you who told me to use employees’ first names?” 

Greg froze. “Mycroft?” 

Somehow, unbelievably, Mycroft Holmes was in Scotland Yard at oh-christ-hundred hours. In person. With his sodding brolly in his hand. 

“Hello, Gregory.” 

It used to be different between them. He and Mycroft would meet up every once in a while, mostly to talk about Sherlock. It was almost a monthly thing, even when John came into Sherlock’s life. If anything, the visits increased; Mycroft was keen to make sure ‘little brother wasn’t getting in with the wrong person’. 

But Mycroft was the first person that Greg stopped speaking to after the Fall. The guilt he felt with John was agony, but Mycroft was different. Greg had promised to take care of Sherlock, to watch over him as much as the madman would let him. And he’d failed. 

And then, when Sherlock came back, Greg was just angry. Angry because he thought that Mycroft trusted him, would have let him know somehow that Sherlock was alive. It didn’t help that Mycroft hadn’t spoken to him since Sherlock’s return, other than to figure out where Sherlock was the night he ran away from hospital.

No, it took Moriarty’s return for their texts to resume any regularity, and they were impersonal and regular, an update every four hours on progress or lack thereof. But Greg had sent one only two hours before. Were there developments already? 

“Nothing is wrong,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Brilliant. Why are you here, then? Isn’t it past your bedtime?” 

“I wanted to speak to you alone, and you haven’t been alone in the last week.” 

“Haven’t I asked you to stop Big Brothering me?” 

“You haven’t been texting me. I had no choice.” 

“Christ, Mycroft, don’t you understand why?” 

“Yes, yes I do.” Mycroft’s face twitched, and for a second Greg saw the exhaustion and worry. “May I sit?” 

Greg hesitated, but…“sure”. 

“Thank you.” Mycroft hooked his umbrella over the arm of the chair and sat down, facing Greg. The two of them sat in silence for a moment. 

“Why did you want to speak to me alone?” Greg said at last. 

“Because I owe you an apology and an explanation, and I wanted to give you the freedom to react however you want. I know you dislike an audience.” 

That was true. The best part of being a D.I. was that he got his own office, a door to close when he didn’t want people to look at him. 

“What are you apologizing for, Mycroft?” 

“Perhaps it would make sense to start with the explanation,” Mycroft answered. “It’s very closely related.” 

“Okay.” Greg braced himself. “I owe you an apology too, you know.” 

Mycroft’s face crumpled, and Greg saw his tiredness and worry again, but more than that, he saw shame. 

“No, Gregory. You don’t owe me anything.” He leaned forward. “Gregory Lestrade, I never blamed you for what happened to Sherlock.” 

“Nothing did happen to him in the end, did he?” 

“No. But all—well, most—of what happened was entirely down to mine and Sherlock’s actions.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes. Everything from Moriarty’s “heists” onward was our plan.” 

That was news. “Even the trial?” 

“Yes. We thought it would give Moriarty an edge of confidence.” 

Greg stared at him. “I think you’d better start at the beginning.” 

“Of course, I’m doing it all wrong.” Mycroft steepled his fingers. “After I let Moriarty go, Sherlock and I started to make a plan. We had an inkling of what Moriarty wanted—he wanted to destroy Sherlock completely, and that involved his reputation. So we began to sow information and plan for Sherlock to fake his own death.” 

“And we were just going to fucking—” 

“Please, Gregory. Please let me finish.” Mycroft’s voice broke. Greg almost didn’t recognize this man, so much more open, so…so vulnerable. He nodded reluctantly. 

“The plan was to get Sherlock arrested, on the run. There was nothing you could have done for that; you had to be yourself in that moment, but powerless. I know you didn’t believe he was guilty, but things were piling up too fast for you to do anything.” 

“I let it happen.” 

“I made it happen,” Mycroft corrected him. “I know you, Gregory. I know you well. I planned that part specifically to ensure that you could do nothing, no matter what you tried.” 

That hurt so badly Greg could feel it flowing from his aching heart through his veins. He couldn’t stop the groan that escaped his lips. “Why would you do that?” 

He couldn’t look at Mycroft, he could only wait for his answer. But when none came, he looked up. “Damn you, answer me!” 

“I was trying to protect you.” The whisper was so loud in the quiet room. 

“How is that protecting me?! All this—all this time, and even then, I hated myself. Why did you do that?” 

“As I said, the plan was for Sherlock to fake his death.” Mycroft sighed heavily. “But my brother is stubborn, and he refused to let all his associates—his words, not mine—be left to think he’d do something so stupid. So we made a plan that four people would know he was still alive, other than myself. Molly Hooper, because she was going to aid us, John Watson, Martha Hudson, and you. And I was the one who put your name on that list.” 

“So Sherlock didn’t give a damn if I knew?” The pain was turning sharp now, pinning down every bit of misery in the last two years. 

“He thought you wouldn’t give a damn.” 

“What the FUCK?! I’ve done so bloody much for that—” 

“No, Gregory. He thought you would not care whether he was alive or dead, beyond police work.” 

Greg sucked in a big breath and rocked himself back into his chair, hands over his face. “Where in hell did I go so wrong that he thought that?” 

“You did nothing wrong, Gregory. Sherlock’s long been used to being seen as a resource, if an unwelcome one. He only thought of John and Molly, at the beginning. He thought you and Mrs. Hudson would be fine without him there. That he wouldn’t be causing you anymore trouble.” 

“I’m going to go find that kid and shake some sense into him—” 

“He knows now, Gregory. He does. And he hates himself for those two years, as much as he hates himself for this plan in the first place.” 

“Right.” Greg pulled himself back from the edge of calling Sherlock and demanding to know where he got off thinking that Greg didn’t love him. “But that plan isn’t what happened at all.” 

“It isn’t, because Moriarty’s snipers changed everything. Originally Sherlock would slip away and I would let the three of you know in turn that Sherlock was alive but gone—ideally after the funeral.” 

“Because we had to look sad enough.” 

“I value my brother’s safety, Gregory.” Mycroft’s face turned stern. “That comes before everything else, including my own feelings. And it was not just for a convincing performance. Tell me, how long do you think John Watson could have stood knowing that Sherlock was alive and in danger without trying to find him? And what about you? I had to make sure Sherlock was far away, and beyond my own knowledge; he could always reach me, but I didn’t always know where he was exactly. It was the only plan that would stop his family coming after him.” 

Mycroft had him there. “So why didn’t this happen at all? Just because of the snipers?” 

“Yes. That changed everything. Now not only did Sherlock have to make his suicide much more public—and actually do it in front of John—but neither could we share anything with you three. Especially not you three. And I had to behave coldly, and not interact with you, like…” 

“Like I actually played a part in your baby brother’s suicide.” Greg bit his lip hard. “I see.” 

“Yes. But I didn’t think—I didn’t know that my opinion would matter so much to you.” 

“It wasn’t just you,” Greg whispered. John going pale every time the subject of Sherlock came up by accident, avoiding the eyes of people on the street, looking at unsolved crimes and knowing that if he hadn’t been so stupid, Sherlock could have been there to help. All he could do was apologize to the victims in his head, and promise to try to be better. 

“Why are you only telling me this now?” Greg asked at last. “Sherlock’s been back for ten months. We haven’t spoken at all. That’s why I thought you were angry.” 

“I was angry. Just not with you.” 

“Oh?” 

“The moment I heard from Sherlock that you were so happy to see him, that you apologized to him…I realized that you felt like you needed to apologize. And I’d left you to face that alone for two years.” 

“You left John too.” 

“Yes, but you and John did have each other. I suppose I never stepped back and realized how this was affecting you.” Mycroft bowed his head. “We never planned for it to take so long, you see. I thought he would be home in six months at the most, but things kept piling up. And I wasn’t brave enough to speak to you, and I thought once Sherlock was back you would feel better. But I…I can’t let this go on any longer. I thought you were in pain, I never realized how deep it went. And I know that it’s my fault. I do value you, Gregory. I know I’m not good at showing it.” 

Greg could feel tears building in his eyes, but he concentrated on the warm relief that coursed through his veins instead. “Just to be clear,” he said, throat croaky, “you don’t blame me for what happened, this was your idea, and you’re sorry it turned out this way? That’s why you’ve stayed away so long?” 

“Yes.” Mycroft looked troubled. “Is there anything I can—” 

Greg cut him off and wrapped his arms around Mycroft. “You’re a bastard,” he muttered into Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“I suppose that’s technically true. My parents weren’t married when I was born.” 

Greg laughed, and it was the first real laugh he’d had in ages. He moved to pull away, because it was Mycroft after all, and he didn’t seem like a huggy type of person. 

But Mycroft surprised him by drawing him closer, and cupping the back of his head with one hand. “I missed you, Gregory.” 

“Thought I was just a goldfish,” Greg teased. It was a brilliant metaphor; he’d forgotten more in his life than Mycroft stored in his memory every day. The man’s memory for little details was the first thing Greg had ever noticed about him. The first thing he’d cared about. 

“I’m going to murder my brother.” 

“Might have to arrest you for making threats.” 

“You’re not a goldfish, Gregory.” 

“No?” Greg asked, surprised. “It’s alright, I know I’m different from you—” 

Mycroft moved so they were an arms-width apart, and Greg was startled by the ferocity in his eyes. “You are,” he agreed. “God, you are so much better,” and he pulled Greg into an utterly unexpected, but wholly enjoyable kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M Y S T R A D E   
M Y S T R A D E
> 
> Just to let you know, Mycroft thought he'd have to do a lot more grovelling before Greg would forgive him, which is part of why he didn't get there until 2.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	13. Status Update

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian and Jim discuss a new "ally" in bed. The group chat gets an update.

Sebastian rose from bed and grimaced at Jim. “Does she have to fucking come?” 

Jim was naked, lounging at the other end of the bed and scrolling through his phone. “I’ve explained this several times, Seb. Stop making me repeat myself.” 

“But you don’t trust her. Or like her. And she fucked up last time.” 

“Yes. But now we have something on her. One word from me and she’s dead in an hour. She won’t make it back to Sherlock’s protection.” Jim yawned. “Anyways, we only need her for one part of the job. You can have the rest, greedy man.” He put a hand on Sebastian’s ankle. Sebastian shook it off. 

“I don’t care how much of this job I do personally,” he snapped. “I just don’t understand why you’re giving her another chance. If I’d fucked up the way she did—” 

“I’d be cross with you,” Jim interrupted. “And I’d wonder why you didn’t ask for help before it got that bad. But if it was you, I’d ask you if you wanted another chance.” 

“And you asked her?” 

“No, not at all. I demanded that she come back and help. I know where she is, she knows if I reveal that information she’s a dead woman, and not a ‘made-it-look-like-she-died-in-her-sleep” dead woman’. If she performs well, I promise you’ll never have to see her again. Either she’ll refuse to join and I’ll pack her off to Dubai, or she’ll join up and I’ll send her to Morocco.” Moriarty put his hand on Sebastian’s leg again, and this time Sebastian didn’t pull away. “I meant what I said last night.” 

“That you like biting? I knew that.” 

“Fuck off. I’m attempting to be sentimental.” 

“Don’t hurt yourself.” 

“I missed you, Seb. If I’m going to be happy, I need to be with you. If that means you need to be happy, that’s an easy price to pay.” 

Seb put his hand over Jim’s. “Alright. Now you’ve gone and made me feel guilty. Bastard.” 

* * *

(As a reminder, the group chat names: 

PregMare: Mary  
CurlLocks: Sherlock  
DopeOnTheMic: Mycroft  
3ContWat: John Watson  
MHoops: Molly Hooper  
Gregless: Greg Lestrade  
Hudders: Mrs. Hudson  
Jan8: Janine )

  
Gregless: Checking in, everyone. 

CurlLocks: Hudders, 3, and I are fine. 

Jan8: Yes, you’re starting to use them! I will triumph for sure. 

DopeOnTheMic: I’m going to register my protest against these names once more.

Jan8: As long as they can stay, I’ll take all protests.

MHoops: What progress has been made? 

3ContWat: We’ve had some luck with the Network—they’re all sorted. There’s patrols running now and we have some zones cleared. 

PregMare: Dope and I have gotten a broader look at the international links. We’re trying to figure out some—fuck, I don’t like to say pressure points. 

Jan8: Weaknesses? 

PregMare: Yes, that’s it. We had a bit of a delay last night, though. Where did you go, Mycroft? 

DopeOnTheMic: I was busy. 

CurlLocks: Enlightening.

Gregless: I’m sure he was just messing about with one of his other projects.

DopeOnTheMic: Hardly messing. This was personal. I needed to get in touch with someone, clear the air. 

CurlLocks: You did find a goldfish, then.

MHoops: Were you looking for a fish, Mycroft? My cousin owns a pet store.

MHoops: Jan8 is telling me that I’m not getting something and I’m making it awkward. Interesting to be that one, for a change. 

Gregless:Sharp tongue, Hoops. 

MHoops: Thank you :) Now, moving on. Jan8 and I are going to see some people in a few days, find out what they know. We just want to do some background work first. 

DopeOnTheMic: You’ve also got to go through some training in the field.

Jan8: I know how to talk to people, Dope.

DopeOnTheMic: Of course you do. But in addition to that, we need to make sure that your route there is safe, that proper precautions are taken while you’re there, and no one follows you back. 

Jan8: …but if they don’t know where we’re going, how would they follow us?

DopeOnTheMic: That’s precisely why you need training. 

CurlLocks: Paranoia is a learned skill. I’m sure you two will be fine. 

MHoops: Thank you! 

DopeOnTheMic: Well then, that’s settled. Everyone stay on your guard and make sure that any new developments are passed along immediately.

CurlLocks:Naturally. Sleep well, everyone. Unless you’re out with your goldfish, Dope.

_DopeOnTheMic has disconnected. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who on earth were Seb and Jim talking about? :)  
Cheers,  
Acme


	14. All Around London Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock start scoping out London to find Moriarty.

“There are too many abandoned buildings in London,” John groaned. 

He wasn’t in his early thirties anymore; he was in his late thirties, thank you very much. And getting around London on foot to all of these places was looking less like a hunt for a dangerous criminal and more like an overly ambitious tour of London hard times. 

Sherlock examined the map again. “John, we’re not going over all of this ground alone. The Network’s fanning out.” 

“Yes, but the faster we find him, the faster I can put a bullet in him.” 

“John, we’re not—”

“I know, I know that murder’s off the table. But no one said anything about maiming.” John grinned at Sherlock. 

“That seems like a noticeable oversight,” Sherlock answered. “Odd.” 

John sighed. “So where do we start? Also, what happens if he moves? He could just move around the city and we’d never catch him.” 

“That’s why we’re doing this initial survey,” Sherlock answered. “Mycroft’s got plenty of data about official tenants, and he and Mary are running those down. The Network is going to find any squatters and lock down the empty houses and flats. If we’re on the ground, we can cover more places.”

“And they’re locking them down…how, exactly?” Mary had tried to explain it to him the night before, but he’d been too exhausted. Not that a night of tossing and turning and about two hours of sleep had really changed that.

“Cameras,” Sherlock answered. He held up a small piece of wood. “They’re motion activated and heat sensors, so they’ll show up any living creature that comes in. Once everything’s covered it’s not going to matter if Moriarty moves fifteen times a day; we’ll find him.”

“But we’re hoping we can find him faster than that, right?” 

“Well I should hope so. He’s human, John. He needs somewhere to sleep, somewhere to eat. We’ll find him.” 

John nodded. “Well, I suppose we should get moving. Again, where are we starting?” 

* * *

Walking through London like this brought back memories. Not of his early days with Sherlock—most of those days were running, not walking—but of the days before they met.

From the moment he could walk under his own power John had puttered around London, trying to force his damn uninjured leg to stop hurting. It never worked and he’d have to take the Tube back to his bedsit, where some well-meaning person his age would stand to let him sit down. 

In short, the memories put him in a terrible mood. 

The gear aggravated him even more. Before Mycroft approved them stepping out— “it takes one car to murder you, brother, one mugger, one brick falling from a construction site—” he’d fitted them with panic buttons, bulletproof vests that were so thin John doubted their efficacy, the same tablets the Network had, and ridiculous coats. Sherlock was wearing a short bright blue one with huge sunglasses, and John was trapped in a damn trenchcoat. That was dark green. 

At least they were warm coats, because it was bloody freezing. John craned his neck. “Snow, you reckon?” 

“Probably not,” Sherlock answered in a ridiculously Canadian accent. 

“I’m not doing the damn accent.” 

“It makes it more fun.”

“Does it really?” 

“No of course not.” Sherlock grimaced. “But being lectured by my brother is less fun.” 

“Is he going to lecture me?” 

“I’m sure he’s assuming that I’ll do it.” 

“You’re going to take me to task, are you?” John grinned. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Stick by me. You’ll be fine.” 

“You do the same,” John said firmly. “Don’t go wandering off and getting strangled by Chinese assassins.” 

“That was years ago!” 

“So you might feel brave enough to do it again.” 

“My reflexes are fine, John.” 

They kept walking, and they fell into silence. Every so often Sherlock would look down at his map and check something, and then they’d move on. The Network were more efficient than they’d thought.

“There’s a lot of them,” Sherlock said in an undertone. “More than I imagined would want to be involved.” 

John frowned. “Shouldn’t we—I don’t know—” 

“What?”

“Doesn’t it feel strange to you? We’re asking them to risk our lives, we give them money,and then we leave them homeless. We depend on them being homeless, actually. That feels wrong to me.” 

Sherlock stopped walking. “That’s not all we do.” 

“What?” John looked at him. “I mean, I know…before, I’d do some medical work for them, but still that’s…that’s not addressing the main concerns.” 

“No, more than that. John, I’ve told you about this before—oh. You may not have been there.” 

John sighed. “Talk to me all you want when I’m not there, just make a note of important things. Go on, then. How do we help? I…I want to do more.” 

“I’ve been working with Mycroft for years on a systemic way to address homelessness in this city—ideally worldwide, but every city’s different. Investing in homeless charities is a short-term solution, and so is giving people temporary work. I understand that. It’s just…it’s a big problem, and I don’t know how to solve it.” 

“No one’s expecting you to solve it on your own,” John said gently. “It’s not easy, being faced head on with the situation…I just wasn’t sure whether there were any plans in the works.” 

“There are. And once we’ve dealt with Moriarty, you’re welcome to come and help. Though I suppose you’re going to need a break once the baby’s born.” 

John hesitated, unsure how to answer that. “I suppose that depends on what sort of break you mean. Here, turn left.”

Sherlock did, into a darker, quieter alley. “What sort of break do _you_ mean?” 

“Not really sure yet.” John glanced up, a quick check for snipers, and then turned his attention back to Sherlock. “Mary and I haven’t talked it through yet…what happens with the baby.” 

“Well, the infant will be born, and there’ll be a christening, most likely, and then—” 

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. “You’re rambling. What are you worried about?” 

“You’ll have new responsibilities,” Sherlock said. “And you’ll have Mary back, and infants require a lot of care—” 

“If you think you’re getting out of the godfatherly responsibility of babysitting and occasional nappy-changing, you’ve got another think coming.” 

“Godfather?” Sherlock’s eyes went wide. 

“Yeah.” John backpedalled. “If you want to, of course. I know that’s a lot of responsibility, since the likelihood of something happening to Mary and I is fairly likely…” 

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Sherlock said firmly. “Either of you. I…am honoured, John. I will do my best.” 

John grinned at him. “I think you’ll be splendid. You’re good at taking care of people once you figure out what they need.” 

Sherlock considered him for a moment, and there was a different kind of intensity there, just for a moment, that John had never seen before. But then it vanished. 

“Are you going to have a godmother?” 

“Probably godmothers. I want to ask Molly and Mrs. Hudson, and Mary…” John sighed. “She wants to ask Janine, but I’m not sure if that’s going to be a possibility.” 

“I’m sure she would do it,” Sherlock said awkwardly, fidgeting with his scarf. “She’ll patch things up with Mary soon, and she’s your friend as well. John, here.” 

John stopped, and examined the door they were stood in front of. Nondescript to the point of blending in with the wall, nothing screamed criminal. 

Sherlock took out a pair of sunglasses. 

“You don’t need those,” John hissed. “It’s cloudy as—” 

“Heat vision,” Sherlock muttered out of the corner of his mouth. He put them on and stared intently above the door, tilting his head downwards slowly until he was looking at their feet. 

Then he kicked the door in. 

“What—” 

“No one’s in. Come on, we need to clear it.” 

John kept a hand on his gun just in case as they went inside. They were faced with two narrow staircases and a small room to one side. 

“What the hell is this place?” 

“This building used to be a slumlord’s paradise,” Sherlock answered. “This would hold ten people. Once it was shut down and a pub was put on the front, this part was boarded off. It’s not exactly safe for humans.” 

“You’re not joking,” John muttered. He glanced at the stairs. “We don’t have to go up, do we?” 

Sherlock shook his head, opening the case with their sensors. “We just need a pair at each staircase. Check the room, there might be signs of someone being here once.” 

John stepped through the door, gun at the ready. The faint light from the street did nothing to help with making out any part of the room, so he turned on his torch as well. It lit up dusty corners with deep marks every six feet; no doubt the marks from the bunks long ago. Right now the room was empty, though, and the dust was so deep John felt he might develop asthma just from looking at it. 

“Sher, toss me some sensors, will you? No one’s been here for centuries.” 

“This building was shut down in the eighties—”

“Shut up, you git.” 

He got two sensors tossed to his feet for his trouble. John swore at him, bent down to grab them, and attached one to the wall at his waist level. That should catch most people. He considered the other side of the door carefully, trying to find some mark to tell him how to make them line up perfectly. 

“It’s got a wide margin for error,” Sherlock muttered in his ear. 

John spun around, and Sherlock laughed as he ducked away from John’s swinging torch. 

“Stop sneaking up on me!” 

“Why would I do that?” 

“It’s irritating!” 

“For you. But it’s amusing for me, therefore I’ve got no reason to stop.” 

“You will if you want to retain your godfather privileges.” 

Sherlock actually took a step back, his face closing off. 

“Oh for—stop that. I’m not actually going to take away—” John shook his head and placed the second sensor. “Sherlock, don’t be stupid. You could be the world’s most irritating prat, and as long as you were still you I’d name you godfather.”

“What do you mean if? I am the world’s most irritating prat.” 

“No you’re not, mate. The person who invented chip and pin machines is.” 

“You still haven’t gotten any better at those, have you?” 

“Why bother? The way I see it, I’m just keeping to some kind of tradition.” 

“Of waiting in queue.” 

“It’s better than nearly getting chucked out of Tesco’s again.” 

Sherlock chuckled, holding the door open. “I don’t think I’ve heard that story.” 

“It happened two weeks before the wedding.” 

“That day you came home in a proper strop?” 

John glared at Sherlock as they started walking down the alley. “Stop gossipping with my wife.”

“Mary likes my chatting,” Sherlock sniffed. “Come on, this way. We’ve still got several miles to go.” 

John groaned, but it was a short groan this time. Messing about with Sherlock, roaming the streets on the trail of a criminal, whingeing at each other…it felt good. 

Maybe the walking wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed!   
Cheers,  
Acme


	15. Where in the World Is...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Mary discuss some updates.   
There is no appearance by Carmen Sandiego, and I tried to make it happen.

“What have you heard from the informants?”

“The last report is just coming in, Mary. One moment.” 

Mary leaned forward as best she could and looked over Eli’s report again. It was short and to the point, which described Eli in a nutshell. It even had FBI lettering on the page—how sweet, he must have done it at work. 

“Ah.” Mycroft looked up. “Well, it’s more of the same. There’s been no news from that organization either.” 

“Really?” Mary bit her lip. “Well, I suppose Eli was right, then.” 

Eli’s news, gleaned from both their shared background in the CIA and now his new contacts from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, was that the King was indeed making some moves. A call had gone out through the background chambers of several international organizations, to the corrupt lawmakers and the cunning lawbreakers. The message was simple—a call to suspend operations right then (excluding day to day business of course, which was everything from white collar fraud to human trafficking)—essentially, no new projects could be started. The people who obeyed that call would be well rewarded, and there was even a possibility of joining “The Court”, which had to be what Sherlock called “The Web”. 

Mary tapped her fingers. “I suppose I understand the appeal—Moriarty’s got an excellent reputation, and if he can make sure Sherlock—Sherlock can’t stop him; well, if we can’t stop him. He could fund everything, and consult, you know. He’s proven his reputation many times over.”

“Sound theory. There is one problem, though. Getting that message out would have been a simple task. But now he’s going further and recruiting from all over the world, and only specific people; the ones who followed his instructions. That requires a thorough understanding of multiple criminal operatives’ regular schedules, and the trust for him to get them a confidential message.” 

Mary tapped her lips, wincing as the baby kicked. Her daughter had gone from kicking rarely to kicking nearly nonstop during the day, but it surprised her every single time.

“Maybe you’re overthinking it, Mycroft.” 

“How do you mean?”

“Do you remember when Sherlock came back—that terrorist case? And there were the ‘rats’ whose movements would show that they were getting ready to move? What if Moriarty’s doing something like that?” 

Mycroft’s eyes widened. “That’s entirely possible. We don’t have the original text of the message?” 

“No. Even Eli’s only heard it secondhand, and all the accounts say something different. Maybe that’s on purpose?” 

“I don’t think so. I believe it was one message, and it contained information about a signal. You’re right, Mary—communicating separately would be too much effort. No, there’s some signal on his end, and everyone who heard the message will know what it is. The question is, wouldn’t everyone respond to the signal, even if they didn’t follow instructions? You said that Moriarty earned his excellent reputation. What about that would make people not risk seeming to follow instructions?” 

Mary only let the shudder happen in her shaking fingers. “You don’t double cross the King. He never pressures anyone to get involved, but if you want to be part of the plan, you can’t change your mind. There were whispers when I was active about whole nation wide networks going down; some got turned into the police, some were just massacred. People disappeared into thin air, and the people who did get to live had to work for him until they earned his forgiveness. I don’t know if anyone ever got to that point.” 

“Then we don’t have to watch everywhere,” Mycroft answered. “Just the groups that are currently going quiet. Well, quieter than usual. When they move, we’ll know that the signal’s gone off.” 

“By that point it will be too late,” Mary objected. 

“Precisely, which is why we need to work both ends. That signal cannot go off.” Mycroft’s lips tightened. “The signal is no doubt tied to someone in our network’s death or capture. Anything smaller and it wouldn’t impress the outsiders.” 

Now the shudder was in her arms. John. 

“Mary. We are doing everything that we can,” Mycroft said, and his voice was gentler now. “And every day we can do more and more. Gregory’s been working on the case files I identified, and we do have quite a long list of Moriarty’s past associates. I am going to start bringing them in today, and they will be questioned. Even the ones who know nothing will tell us something by their very ignorance.” 

“Are you sure that’s a smart move? It sounds like we’re tipping our hand a bit, and Moriarty will be expecting it anyways.”

“Of course he will. But that’s necessary sometimes. You’ve played Cluedo before, haven’t you?” 

Mary’s lips twitched. “Not with John.” 

“Yes, I heard a rather funny story about him and Sherlock trying that. Curious choice of game for my dear brother. But the point is that in that game, you often make a suggestion that includes something you know to be untrue. It can throw the other player off, because they believe that you know less than you actually do.” 

“Yes, but Moriarty must have learnt since last time that you and Sherlock are more clever than he thought.” 

“This isn’t about cleverness, Mary. This is about strategy in war, a war with an enemy we’ve faced before. The battleground is new, but the people haven’t quite changed. For now, we need to ensure that Moriarty doesn’t encounter any surprises.” 

Mary had to admit that it sounded logical. “Alright. I’ll trust you on that. I didn’t realize you were interested in war, Mycroft. You seemed more of the underhanded diplomat.” 

Mycroft studied her for a moment. “I will take that as a compliment. But I’ve used my talents for the military before. I consulted on the war effort in Afghanistan.” 

Mary narrowed her eyes. “You have, have you? And when did that start?” It couldn’t be…that many years in the difference?

“Ah. Mary, you flatter me, but you also grant me too much heart. No, I had nothing to do with your husband’s military adventures. In fact, I made sure of this myself not long after he and Sherlock met. 

“Oh.” Mary shrugged. “Then I suppose I’m sad you didn’t, or he might not have been wounded.” 

“And yet that wound is why we both know him,” Mycroft answered. “I do hope he considers that worth it in my case.” 

“Mine as well,” Mary muttered. 

“He loves you, Mary,” Mycroft answered, his voice gentle again. “He loves you dearly. You’d be a fool to question that, especially since he now knows as much about your past as he wants.” 

“He doesn’t know it all.” 

“He knows what he wants,” Mycroft repeated. “And what he wants is you.” 

Mary hesitated, worried that saying it aloud would make it all too real. But— “Mycroft, you know I’m not all he wants.” 

It was the first time she’d ever admitted that out loud, even to herself. 

Mycroft looked at her for a long moment. “I cannot speak to that, Mary. Not really. Your husband is a private person; even Sherlock doesn’t know everything about him. Curious, isn’t it? You and Sherlock and I make our livings from being observant, from predicting and reading people, and none of us have the full picture of John Watson. And the most curious part is that he isn’t doing that deliberately.” 

“And what do you mean by that?” 

“I mean that I would be far more nervous about our current efforts if it was John Watson we were fighting, and not James Moriarty. I cannot advise you, Mary, but what I can tell you is that you need not fear John. Whatever decision you make, he will love you. Those feelings are real; of that I am sure.”

“So you think we should talk about it?” 

“I think that you should do what feels right for you. All of you.” Mycroft’s phone beeped. “I have to leave now for a meeting. Now, I’d like you to try and get some rest. You were up quite late last night, I hear.” 

“Anthea wasn’t supposed to tell on me,” Mary grumbled. “And I got hungry.” 

“I’m sure. Please do try to get some sleep tonight, Mary. Anthea’s a fan of that show you enjoy, you know. Perhaps some telly will help you relax.” 

“Anthea likes Midsomer Murders?” 

“Oh yes. I don’t care for it, personally. It’s—” 

“Illogical and full of bad policing? Yes, John’s complained. I still enjoy it.” Mary paused. “Who are you going to meet?” 

“Nothing to do with this business, Mary. I’m meeting up with an old friend for dinner. I think we both need a night off, wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Cheers.” Mary smiled at him. “Have fun, Mycroft.” 

“Enjoy yourself, Mary.” 

Mycroft left the room and went up to…yes, he was climbing the stairs to his room. Mary supposed he was going to change for his outing, but he was already wearing decent clothes, and she’d never seen him change in the day. Odd. 

But Baby was kicking, and Anthea poked her head in. “Hi Mary. I’m going to do up some pasta puttanesca and a fruit salad, want to join me?” 

Mary put Mycroft out of her mind and, with slightly more difficulty, Moriarty as well. “I think that sounds grand,” she said, getting up carefully. “Now, whereabouts are you in the series? Because I’ve watched the first few, but I can watch them again…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, next chapter there will be smut!   
Cheers,  
Acme  
PS Also no real disrespect to Midsomer Murders, I like the show but I draw the line at police officers yeeting (gently) a corpse off a bed, sans gloves, and messing up the entire room looking for clues. How do any of their cases make it to trial?


	16. Eating, Feelings (Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg have their first date, and their first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit sexual content. It is the author's first time writing sexual content, so please do not judge too harshly.

Mycroft would not describe himself as someone who became nervous easily. If he were that sort of person, he could never have survived his job. Most of his colleagues lasted three years under his division, and those were the ones who took care of themselves. It was a lot, knowing the world was on your shoulders, that the smallest decision needed to be predicted to prevent a war…no, he didn’t get rattled. He worried sometimes, but those worries were proportional to the cause, and were often related to his unfortunate sentimental attachments. No, he corrected himself. They weren’t unfortunate, just complicated. Every time he cared for a person, it left him open to so many more mistakes, new variables, new challenges. Most of the time that was unwelcome. 

  
Except with Gregory Lestrade. He’d never had to worry the same way about Gregory; he knew what their relationship was, knew the variables of Greg’s job, and knew without a doubt that between himself and Sherlock they could keep the man alive and reasonably well. 

  
It was a strange irony that the most nervous he’d been in over a decade was now, standing outside Gregory’s flat. 

Dating wasn’t something Mycroft knew well. There was nothing simple or straightforward about this, other than the action of going out to eat (which Mycroft knew how to do reasonably well). This was Gregory, and after so much time, Mycroft was worried by how little he actually knew about the man. Was this a smart thing to do? Would Gregory change his mind? Would Mycroft change his mind? Why on earth did he have to take the one thing that was dependable in his life and make it complicated? 

It didn’t matter right now, though. The important thing was to get himself and Gregory into the car, and then out to dinner, without being shot at. That was the general aim of the evening. Now, if Gregory would open the door…

The door swung open just as Mycroft was ready to call him. Gregory had a thick overcoat on, neatly pressed, and new shoes. His hair was properly combed for the first time in three weeks, and he was smiling. 

Mycroft wanted to focus on the last part. 

“Hullo, Mycroft. Sorry, were you waiting long?” 

“Only a few moments.” That was true, but it had felt like ages. Mycroft offered Gregory his hand. “Come. The stairs are slippery.” 

Greg’s hand in his felt surprisingly strong, and it was with great reluctance that Mycroft let go to get into the car. Once he’d shut his door, he was pleased that Greg took his hand right away. 

  
“So where are you whisking me off to tonight?” Greg asked. “Back to your place?” 

  
“No. Mary Watson is there, and she needs to rest. She has been very keen to work on the case, and she’s been valuable, but she is tiring.” 

  
“Can’t imagine being six months pregnant is helping with stress.” 

  
“Of course not. And she misses her husband.” Mycroft sighed. “Hopefully this situation will come to a head soon enough. No, tonight I thought you might like to get out of the city.” 

  
“I wouldn’t mind it. Where are we going?” 

  
Mycroft signalled to the driver. “It’s a restaurant in a town just outside of the Tube’s reach. They have excellent Italian food.”

  
Greg’s eyes lit up. “I love Italian food.” 

  
“I know. That’s why I ensured it was truly good.I find people tend to be more lenient when it comes to assessing Italian restaurants.” 

  
“Probably because the tradition of Italian restaurants is to replicate classics as closely as possible,” Greg said thoughtfully as they drove down a busy street. “You want lasagna to taste like lasagna at its core, and any innovations past that are just bonuses. Except if they make the dish worse. Like serving it with pink sauce.” 

  
Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Did you enjoy that episode?” 

  
Greg rolled his eyes. He was used to Mycroft’s leaps by now, which was reassuring. Mycroft didn’t enjoy being thought of as clever; he didn’t bask in it like Sherlock with John. He’d rather accept that he was clever and move along with the conversation. It wasn’t arrogance; it was a fact. 

  
“I did. The American version’s rather tiring most of the time, but I do enjoy Ramsay shouting at the top of his voice. I didn’t realize you watched it.” 

“It passes the time,” Mycroft said. “It’s also intriguing to watch the way they structure the episode to hide the true failings of the businesses.”

“Really?” 

“Oh yes. The amount of affairs and embezzlement going on in those businesses is shocking.” 

“We should watch it together some time,” Greg suggested. “It could be fun.” 

“That would be enjoyable,” Mycroft said. 

“We’ll have to have food to watch it,” Greg added. “Obviously.” 

“You can eat watching that?” 

“I do have to take breaks when they do the fridge tours,” Greg admitted. “But even though the food is bad, it makes me hungry. Therefore, snacks.” 

“Perhaps we could do that some night next week,” Mycroft suggested. “I can arrange for food.” 

“We could do that tonight even.” Greg squeezed his hand. “God knows that I can’t sleep, maybe having the telly on will help.” 

Mycroft bit back a sigh. Of course, he should have known. “We could.” 

Greg looked at him curiously. “Mycroft?” 

“It’s nothing.” Mycroft looked straight ahead, his hand loose in Greg’s. Why on earth had he considered that—really, what had possessed him? 

“Would you mind stopping the car for a minute?” Greg said suddenly. “I’m feeling a bit carsick. A couple minutes of fresh air and I’ll be right as rain.” 

Greg didn’t get carsick. Mycroft knew that Greg didn’t get carsick. Greg knew that Mycroft knew he didn’t get carsick. 

Nevertheless, once they’d stopped Mycroft got out of the car and shut the door behind him, his hands suddenly cold in his thick gloves. 

Greg folded his arms across his chest. “Alright, what is it?” 

“I’m not sure—” 

“No, we’re not doing this. I didn’t let you off the hook when we were friends, we are damn not well starting off our relationship this way.” 

Mycroft nodded. “Of course. My apologies.” But how to say it? How on earth was he going to explain that he thought just maybe…maybe their night might go slightly

differently? 

He’d never had much of a sex drive, and when he did he was able to will it away. He wasn’t interested in finding a partner, most of the time, and taking care of it himself was fast and simple. 

But that night they’d kissed for the first time, Mycroft had felt an urgency, a need to have sex, there and then. He’d restrained himself because Greg needed more reassurance than passion in that moment. But now they were going out for dinner, they were both adults, and they wanted each other—Mycroft could read that much in Greg. Still, it was their first date ever, and they’d been friends for so long. It stood to reason that sex would take a while. 

He was thinking this through, and was surprised when Greg took his hands. 

“My, just tell me.” 

That startled Mycroft enough for him to blurt out, “I was hoping to have sex with you tonight.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “Really?” 

“Yes. And I apologize, I should have been more open about that before, and of course I wouldn’t coerce you in any respect. I could never do that.” He’d be a monster then, and Mycroft had enough monstrous in him to be afraid of crossing that line in a thousand different ways. 

Greg let out a big breath. “Well. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting that.” 

“What were you expecting?”

“I wasn’t sure. We’ve known each other nearly a decade now, and I’ve never seen you with anyone, heard you speak of sex or love or anything. I thought you might not be interested in that sort of physicality.” 

Mycroft touched his thumbs to his palms. “A romantic might suggest that I never showed any interest because I was interested in you, even before I knew it consciously.” 

“Are you a romantic, Mycroft Holmes?” 

“I thought not,” Mycroft answered. “But I am not so sure anymore. I would like to try.” 

Greg pulled him down and kissed him, not urgently, not in a rush, as if they weren’t outside on a bitterly cold British evening.

“If that’s what you want, Mycroft,” Greg said at last, pulling away just enough to speak, “then I think we should go have dinner first. And then…well, we can go to bed. At mine though. I want it to be just the two of us.” 

“Yes.” Mycroft held Greg tightly, resting their foreheads together. “Yes, that sounds wonderful.” 

Tension didn’t really rise during dinner, once they finally arrived. The restaurant had a pleasant buzz of chatter, and the waiter brought a basket of bread and a plate of olives before they even got the menus. There were a few couples around them, but there were no same-sex pairs. Mycroft saw Greg looking, saw his jaw tighten. 

“You know we can spend this evening as you wish,” Mycroft pointed out. “We can be as we always have.” 

_You don’t have to come out. You don’t have to feel vulnerable. I don’t want that for you. _

But Greg passed him a menu and took his hand. “Any suggestions?” 

Well. That was that. 

Ordering took the space of a few minutes, and then there was just the wait for food. At first Mycroft worried—could he still talk with Greg, now that they were a couple? 

He didn’t have to worry. They didn’t talk about Moriarty, and they didn’t talk about work. Instead they discussed food. Greg was an enthusiastic cook and lover of food shows, while Mycroft was more interested in baking (he also loved food shows). It was strange to talk about food without ribbing about his weight, without worrying that someone would overhear the fearsome Mycroft Holmes discussing his enjoyment of the Great British Bakeoff…it was nice. 

And then the food came, and they shared different dishes, and Greg insisted on ordering them both dessert, and they tried every flavour of gelato the restaurant had. 

Something felt strange about the meal though, and it wasn’t just that Greg held his hand the entire time. It wasn’t until they’d argued over the cheque and Mycroft insisted on paying for this first time and he was helping Greg into his coat that he realized what it was. 

It was the first time he’d ever had a meal where he wasn’t watching the other diners. He’d done a cursory sweep for safety, of course, but that was instinct by now. No, usually by the first course with anyone, anyone, Mycroft would end up looking around, soothing the distraction in his mind by reading people’s histories and evaluating relationships. He’d gotten so good at it most people praised him for being such an attentive dinner partner without knowing that he’d barely listened. 

But once they were outside the restaurant, Mycroft realized he couldn’t remember a single person’s face. 

When they got into the backseat, Greg sat in the middle right next to him, and put his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. “You’ve mastered the art of treating someone, My.” 

There it was again, and Mycroft couldn’t stop his smile. “The pleasure was mine.” 

No, the tension didn’t build during dinner, and it didn’t build in the car ride back. Everything seemed to fall into place, because they were together, and they knew they wanted each other, and they would find their way to where they wanted to go together. 

* * *

Mycroft let Greg go up the stairs first, and he spoke to his driver. Sean had driven for him for seven years, and he knew Greg fairly well. The grin on his face when Mycroft told him that he would call in the morning for a drive was completely unprofessional, but Mycroft let it slide, just this once. 

  
“I’m glad you two got here, Mycroft,” Sean said. “Now go in and be happy.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Inappropriate, Sean.”

“Yeah, you need me enough that I can afford to be.” 

Mycroft shook his head. “Goodnight.” 

He went inside before Sean turned the corner. It was getting colder now, and snow would certainly fall before the morning. Cold hands were probably not conducive to sex.   
Greg’s new flat wasn’t exactly new—he’d moved here after his divorce from Dolores, four months before Sherlock jumped. But it was nearly new to Mycroft, who’d only been there once—and then it was to tell Greg that he should investigate what the hell Sherlock and John were doing playing about at Baskerville. 

It was a nice flat in a good neighbourhood, and that didn’t make it small. It was smaller than Sherlock and John’s flat, but it had a lovely sitting room, and a separate kitchen through a doorway painted a darker yellow than the rest of the room. A short hallway led to a bathroom, and beyond that was presumably the bedroom. 

  
The rooms looked decently lived in considering Greg’s hours at work. The furniture was well taken care of and comfort was clearly an important factor. There was a pile of notebooks next to the sofa, and the telly was surrounded by box sets of BBC shows. Interesting show of patriotism. 

  
Mycroft took off his boots and hung his jacket in the closet. “Gregory?” he called. 

  
“In the bedroom.” 

  
Mycroft swallowed hard. Ah yes, there it was, that tension that he’d felt on and off for ten days now. He was really going to have sex with Greg at last, after all these years. He hadn’t been lying eariler; he’d harboured feelings for the man for years now. But Greg had a wife and Greg was kind and thoughtful and passionate about his work over everything else. And Mycroft had hurt him.

  
Mycroft stepped into the bedroom, and was rather relieved to see that Greg was still fully clothed, though he too had removed jacket and shoes as well as his tie. Remembering that, Mycroft loosened his own, hanging it carefully next to Greg’s, over the back of the chair. 

  
“Come here,” Greg said invitingly. He was sitting at the end of his bed, his posture relaxed, eyes nearly glowing in the lamplight. Mycroft obeyed.

  
Greg brought a hand up to Mycroft’s shoulders, and then his eyes filled with concern. “Mycroft, why are you crying?” 

  
Was he? Mycroft brought his hand up, and sure enough, there were a few tears on his cheeks. “I’m sorry.” 

  
“Love, what’s wrong?” 

  
Mycroft sighed, concentrating to make sure no more tears would fall. “I suppose it’s difficult for me to feel as if I deserve this. I’ve done you great wrong, Gregory, and I am hardly the type of man who invites second chances.” 

  
Instead of becoming angry or exasperated, Greg’s expression became tender. “Oh, my love.” He kissed Mycroft, and Mycroft let him, praying that this wasn’t some kind of goodbye. Not that he wouldn’t deserve it. 

  
“I love you.” It slipped out the moment Greg pulled away, in a harsh, not-quite-full breath. 

  
“I love you too, Mycroft.” Greg stroked the back of his neck. “What’s in the past is in the past. You’ve apologized and promised not to do it again, and I believe you. I believe you…when I never believed Dolores.” 

  
Mycroft closed his eyes as Greg’s hand moved to his jaw. 

  
“We’re committed, you and I,” Greg said firmly. “And I wouldn’t trade that for the world. I’m ready, Mycroft, ready to be in love with you. Let’s just let ourselves feel lucky, alright?” 

  
Mycroft couldn’t argue with that. He opened his eyes, and saw everything he needed in Greg’s face to see that he was telling the truth. 

  
Their next kiss was more passionate, Mycroft drawing Greg closer so they were pressed together, gripping onto each other like the world might fall apart. Mycroft could hold his breath far longer than Greg, and so when he pulled away it was only to start kissing down his jaw, reaching his ear and placing a quick kiss to his earlobe. 

  
Greg gasped. “My…” 

  
Mycroft tugged the lobe between his teeth, and Greg moaned. “Honestly My, one second…” 

  
Mycroft pulled away immediately. “What’s the matter? Did I hurt you?” 

  
“God no. That’s…that was fine.” Greg took a shaky breath. “I don’t have what we need for sex.” 

  
Mycroft was confused for a second. “Ah, condoms?” 

  
“Those, but more importantly I don’t have any lube.”

  
“Then penetration isn’t an option.” Mycroft kissed Greg’s neck. “That’s fine, Gregory. There are a myriad of other avenues of pleasure.” 

  
Greg sighed, relaxing into Mycroft’s hold. “It shouldn’t be so goddamn hot when you talk that way.” 

  
Mycroft just chuckled. “I don’t intend it to be.” He tilted Greg’s head to access the rest of his neck, and Greg didn’t speak for a long few moments.

  
When he did it was in a shaky gasp as Mycroft bit down just above his right shoulder. “Fucking—clothes off.” 

  
Mycroft agreed, and hurriedly undid the buttons on Greg’s shirt, slipping it off carefully onto the ground. He started to undo his own, but Greg’s hands were in the way. 

  
“Let me do it, love,” Greg said gently. 

  
Mycroft ran his hands over Greg’s chest as he felt his own shirt coming undone. Too late, he remembered to tighten his gut, holding his breath in just a bit. 

  
Greg growled and pulled Mycroft into a dizzying kiss, until Mycroft couldn’t hold his breath anymore and had to pull away gasping. Greg still had his hands on Mycroft’s stomach. 

  
“Don’t you dare hide yourself from me, Mycroft,” Greg said sternly. “I want you, not who you think you should be.” 

  
Greg stood, bringing Mycroft to his feet as well. He tugged at Mycroft’s belt loops until they were touching from shoulder to feet, and Mycroft groaned. Greg was just as hard as he was, and when Greg rolled his hips Mycroft felt his knees go weak.

  
Greg smirked up at him and started undoing his belt. Mycroft copied him hastily, and had just enough presence of mind to take both pairs of trousers and lay them on the chair. The next logical step was his pants, but Mycroft hesitated as he put his hands on the waistband.

  
Greg took his hands in his and kissed them. “Let’s lie down, love. There’s no rush.” 

  
There really wasn’t, Mycroft marvelled as he laid down, pulling Greg on top of him. They had this time together, and the rest of the world felt a million miles away. 

  
Greg leaned down and began to kiss across Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft let his hands wander up and down Greg’s torso, but it became infinitely more difficult to focus when Greg’s lips touched his nipple. A shudder went through him, and Greg looked up at him with a smirk. 

  
“Oh love…sensitive?” 

  
Mycroft was about to say that he wasn’t sure, that he’d never really been touched there, but Greg wrapped his mouth around his nipple and let his tongue play with the tip, and that derailed his train of thought. 

  
Greg was as careful and studious as always, testing different movements of his tongue, bringing his teeth into play, all the while teasing the other nipple with his fingers. Mycroft’s hands were gripping Greg’s waist desperately, and he could barely hold back his moans. 

  
Greg pulled off at last, but it was only to say “I want to hear you, My, just let go…” And then his mouth descended onto the other nipple, his fingers toying with the still-wet tip of the first. Mycroft let his head fall back and moaned, body twitching helplessly. He’d never felt this kind of pleasure, not with another person, not even by himself.   
And he needed to share that pleasure with Greg. 

  
His hands moved from Greg’s waist up to his nipples, and watched as Greg shuddered too, his moan rumbling into Mycroft’s chest, the vibrations producing a new kind of tease. Determined to return the favour, Mycroft pulled Gregory up into a kiss and rolled them so Gregory was under him. The movement made their legs fall together, and Mycroft couldn’t stop himself from pressing their cocks together, rolling his hips slowly, carefully…

  
“Mycroft…”

  
It was Mycroft’s turn to smirk as he turned his attention to Greg’s nipples, his hands moving to gently stroke Greg’s thighs. 

  
He learned quickly that Greg liked more teeth than him, and Mycroft obliged, moving between the nipples with open mouthed kisses across Greg’s chest. Greg’s hands tangled in his hair, and Mycroft gasped as he pulled it after he bit down, pressing his tongue firmly against the tip. 

  
“Sorry,” Greg gasped. 

  
“No,” Mycroft replied, taking a great, heaving breath. “That’s…that’s good.” 

  
He focused his attention lower now, mapping out Greg’s chest with lips and teeth. Greg was squirming beneath him, moaning out his name whenever Mycroft hit a particularly sensitive place. Mycroft kept each place in mind, knowing he would use that knowledge another time to drive Greg crazy, perhaps even to make him beg for release…

  
“Does it feel good?” he whispered to Greg. A shuddering moan was his only answer. “Good…so responsive…” 

  
He’d just reached the waistband of Greg’s boxers when Greg groaned, flipping them again. Before Mycroft could protest, Greg slid down his body. “Two can play at that game, love,” he said, his grin making Mycroft nervous. Instead of turning his attention to the bulge of Mycroft’s cock, however, he pressed his mouth to Mycroft’s thigh. 

  
And that turned the tables, because Mycroft’s thighs were somehow more sensitive than his nipples. Greg mouthed at each one, clever fingers stroking and rubbing from his waist to the back of his knees. Mycroft’s legs spread without thinking, and he gasped every time Greg’s stubble rubbed against a place he’d just sucked and nibbled. Greg was silent, and somehow that was worse than teasing words, because it was relentless, breathless pleasure, with only Mycroft’s moans in the room. 

  
Mycroft’s cock was throbbing by the time Greg finally relented, sucking one last mark at the edge of his boxers. And he needed…needed to feel release, needed to feel Greg’s cock against his, needed to make Greg feel just as much pleasure as he was giving…

  
Greg seemed to feel the same way, because he moved up again so their hips were flush with each other. “Are you ready, Mycroft?”

  
Mycroft felt a surge of gratefulness, because he knew that if he said no they would continue as they were now, learning each other’s bodies, teasing each other into a slow burning desperation. But that wasn’t what he wanted. 

  
He grasped Greg’s boxers and slid them down his legs, supporting his lover with knees that were still strong, and when Greg sat up Mycroft removed his own, pulling them off swiftly and casting them across the room. Then he drew Greg back into his arms, and pulled until—oh. 

  
Their cocks fit together perfectly between their bodies, and Mycroft took a deep, shuddering breath, moving his hands over Gregory’s back.

  
“It’s alright, love,” Greg panted. “God, My, wanted this, wanted you…” 

  
Mycroft kissed him, pulling Greg as close as he could, and then he started to move. 

  
And Greg moved back against him, their cocks pressing together with each thrust, their hips matching pace. Greg put a hand down and gripped them together, and Mycroft shouted, sitting up and kissing Greg for all he was worth…

  
And then it was just long moments of moving and gasping and calling out each other’s names, until Greg groaned and came, biting down on Mycroft’s shoulder as he did. It was enough to set Mycroft off too, and he had just enough presence of mind to be surprised that your vision could indeed go white during an orgasm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope that was worth the wait!   
I had some issues with this chapter; even finished, it still wasn't quite where I wanted it to be, and it's my first written smut and I was nervous. But it's done now, and we're returning to our regularly scheduled programming, updating every third day. I made a writing planner and everything :)   
Cheers,  
Acme  
P.S. Also the comments about Italian cooking are entirely my own opinion, as someone who adores it and has read a few cookbooks. And yes, Mycroft and Greg watch Kitchen Nightmares.


	17. Cobble's Knot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at Scotland Yard, Greg's team makes a breakthrough.

Eating breakfast with Mycroft after a long night of sex was just the energizer Greg needed. He wasn’t a teenager anymore, after all, and sleep was important. Still, somehow those four hours sleeping in Mycroft’s arms were more restful than eight hours with Dolores, and better still than any night alone. 

  
Mycroft was finally convinced to leave after several texts from Mary and a few others from various government people, but he insisted that he drop Greg off at work first. So Greg got to begin his day waking up to his lover, having breakfast together, and finally get a kiss goodbye before work. How long had it been since that happened?

Long enough, it seemed, that several people were giving him bemused looks. Greg was concerned that something had gotten on his face, but when he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective glass he realized what it was. 

Apparently smiling was an unusual look for him. 

Greg didn’t let that concern him. Let his employees talk—if he was gossiped about, at least it would for something pleasant for once. And why shouldn’t he look happy?   
Then the Moriarty task force came in and reminded him. 

Sally and Elliot’s report, and Anderson and Stan’s report lay in front of him on his desk. Greg ignored them for now; he would read them once they’d had a chat. That was always his way—it helped encourage his people to keep the details fresh in their minds, and going from a formal report to a more informal conversation often helped pick out salient, interesting facts. 

“Right,” Greg said. “Philip, Stan? What have you found?” 

“Not much,” Philip grumbled. 

“It’s not that bad,” Stan chastised him. “We did find out a lot of places where information wasn’t.” 

“Always look on the bright side of life, right Stan?” Elliott teased. 

“He’s right,” Greg put in. “Closing doors is just as important right now—it helps cage the bastard in. Did you happen to find anything that would be a lead?” 

“We think so,” Philip answered, looking mollified. “We think we might have found Richard Brook’s point of origin.” 

“Well that’s useful,” Greg said. “When, exactly?” 

They hadn’t known the exact point where Richard Brook was brought into existence. There were too many leads to follow, too many backtracks and secret servers and all that nonsense, and with Sherlock “dead” Greg had let it go. It didn’t matter; they had evidence that Moriarty was real, and that was enough. 

“It looks like Moriarty created that identity a lot earlier than we thought,” Philip replied. “The earliest we estimated was 2010, but Stan had a bright idea of looking at community theatre productions.” 

“R. Brook is listed as a player in a program from 2008,” Stan said. He held out his tablet.

“Macbeth.” Greg rolled his eyes. “Of course. Any pictures?” 

“No. But we cross-referenced some of the fake CVs he made, and one of them mentions the name of another actor in that performance as a reference.” 

“Didn’t he take the alias as an idea from the Reichenbach painting?” Sally asked. “Because it means Rich Brook?” 

“He did, but look.” Stan pulled up another list of names—about fifty at first glance. “These are his known aliases. None of them have first names, just last names and initials. So he might have just gone for the one that fit.” 

“He had a hand in the theft of that sodding painting too, didn’t he?” Greg examined the list of names. He recognized a few, but… “Stan, where did you get that list?” 

“Oh, I went through all the CVs and checked all the references. These ones aren’t real people, and the information matches what we know about Moriarty—some of them are aliases from old cases.” 

“Well done, lad,” Greg said, impressed. “Elliott, your cousin’s a natural.” 

“He definitely is,” Elliott said warmly, grinning at Stan’s blush. “Sally and I didn’t have nearly the same kind of luck.” 

“What did you find, then?” 

“Well, we’ve double checked all of the students at the school that Carl Powers attended,” Sally replied. “None of them have dropped off the face of the earth, and they don’t match Stan’s lists either. We’ve spoken to several of Carl’s classmates, trying to see if anyone remembered an issue with Carl and the others, but nothing so far. Apparently Carl wasn’t popular, but there wasn’t much about him that would irritate anyone.” 

“Interesting.” Greg rubbed his chin. “Well, we only have Moriarty’s word for why he killed him, anyways. Have you got complete records for that town?” 

“Figured it was best to get the whole county,” Elliott answered. “We’ve got the tech to run that kind of data mining; get some parameters nailed down and go through it to see if we can find him.” 

Greg reached for his own tablet. “Here, I can give you a bit more data. I’ve gotten through about five hundred of these cases, so that’ll be more names to examine.” 

“Cheers, guv,” Elliott said. 

“On the subject of names…” Stan said carefully. 

“Yes?” Greg prompted when Stan just trailed off. 

“Well, we know there’s no Jim or James Moriarty that was born within twenty years of the predicted day,” Stan said slowly. “Not around there, and this was the eighties—it wasn’t like there was digital contact as much, so it makes sense that Moriarty did live near Carl.” 

“Yes.” 

“So he must have had a different name then. And we’ve been thinking that he changed his name for criminal purposes, right? To have a fake identity?” 

Greg frowned. “Well, yes. He’s certainly got dozens of those.” 

“It does make sense,” Stan continued, “but people change their names sometimes for other reasons. Like I did.” 

Greg nodded. “Right.” 

“And you looked at my application, sir, you know I haven’t gotten around to changing my birth certificate yet.” Stan’s ears turned pink. “I’m working on it, but so long as people call me Stan, that’s what matters. The official language can wait if it has to.” 

Greg’s eyes widened. “Oh, I see. He might not have waited until he was an adult to call himself James Moriarty.” 

“Exactly. Maybe his mother remarried and he took her new husband’s name, or maybe he had her name. Or maybe…maybe he’s like me?” 

“I’ve never seen him in person,” Greg said carefully. He’d read everything he could get his hands on about transgender people since Stan was hired, but he still wasn’t completely confident that he wouldn’t put his foot in his mouth. “So I don’t really know. Sherlock never mentioned anything about him being trans, though.”

Stan grinned. “That’s good, I suppose. So…yes, we might have to look further down the trail for his name change.” 

“Sounds brilliant.” Greg considered Stan. “You’re new to the police force, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Greg. My name is Greg.” 

“Right…yes, Greg.” 

“You’ve really got a knack for this work. Was it because of your experience that you thought of the name, or—” 

“Actually, I—well, even when I was hating my life in engineering, I was always interested in true crime. And of course I read—well, I read Sherlock’s blog and then I read Dr. Watson's when he started writing. It was fascinating.” Stan was still blushing. 

“Have you met them yet?” 

“No, I haven’t.” 

“I’ll invite them into the station soon,” Greg said decisively. “I’m sure they’d love to speak to you.” 

“You don’t have to!” Stan protested. “I’m sure they’re very busy—” 

“They’d be happy to talk to you,” Greg interrupted. “I’m sure of that.” 

Stan seemed to hesitate.

“What is it?” 

“Well, there’s something else that’s bothering me about this.” 

“And what’s that?” 

“Well, Elliott’s been talking to me about police work for ages,” Stan said. “And I think we might want to look at this from a victimology perspective.” 

“Oh yes? Go on then, ELliott.” 

Elliott rolled his eyes at his cousin. “It’s not that novel an idea, and we’re already looking at this from other angles—” 

“Elliott. We are dealing with one of the most advanced criminal coverups this damn country has ever seen. Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes can’t track him down, and they’re actually working together. Right now we need every last idea.” 

“Okay. Well, I know we haven’t found anything that Carl Powers did to anyone, but he became a victim. Sometime between being a baby and being ten years old, something happened that ended in him drowning in a swimming pool. I think if we track that incident, find it somehow…I think we might be able to trace back to Moriarty that way.” 

Greg leaned back. “Not sure if I really need to be here, you lot. You’re all doing a fantastic job.” 

“Oh Greg, don’t be ridiculous. We need you to go through that enormous stack of paperwork.” Philip patted his shoulder. 

“Hilarious. I’m pretty sure you can all read…” 

“Not that handwriting, we can’t.” Sally rolled her eyes. “Why isn’t any of that typed?” 

“Mycroft writes everything down by hand,” Greg answered. “Then he can burn things when they’re no longer relevant.” 

“…Interesting family, them,” Sally said. That was the nicest she’d ever been about the Holmes’, so Greg let it go, even though he wanted to leap to Mycroft’s defense. 

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Greg said after a moment’s reflection. “I want the four of you to work together on that data—go through it from all your angles, look for anything that’s a hit, and then run them down. I’ll send you more data as I go through these files. Sound good?” He waited a beat. “Right, then let’s get to it. Someone put the kettle on, would you?” 

* * *

Three cups of strong tea later, Greg was feeling slightly less charitable toward his lover. Mycroft did have difficult handwriting, and some of the files’ information was laid out in different formats. Sending texts for clarification brought one word responses, but that was usual. Greg dearly wanted to call him, but he wasn’t sure that he could stop himself from talking to Mycroft as if they were alone. 

By the time Sally returned from fetching lunch for them all, Greg had gotten through another fifty files. He was starting to find a rhythm with the files, despite the inconsistent styles. Type in location, type of crime, victims, nature of the connection…it was starting to be predictable—

Greg stopped. 

He looked at what he’d just typed on the screen. He hadn’t even flipped over the file yet, but he’d already typed in the place—Devon. 

Greg turned the file over. 

Devon. It was in Devon. 

Greg hurriedly typed in the rest of the information, paying close attention to the details. It wouldn’t do to get complacent and go on autopilot, and people saw patterns in things all the time when none existed…

But he kept the next file turned over as well, and carefully typed in the words that came to mind—Fitton, theft. 

And when he looked at it, it was a file detailing a jewelry theft in Fitton. 

Greg’s eyes went wide. 

Over the years of being a copper, he’d learned how to trust his instincts and when to ignore them. This felt like the latter, and Greg quickly looked at all the pages he’d typed out, zoomed out so he could see the basic details of each. 

He was right. It was there now—not obvious, nothing that anyone could see without looking this closely, looking at all of them chronologically. 

Greg leapt up and rushed to the map, holding his tablet in one hand and reaching for the box of markers with the other. 

“Greg?” 

“I’ll do this on the digital map in a minute,” Greg said hurriedly. “I just need to see—” 

Glancing between the tablet and the map, he put dots, switching markers for each year (thank goodness he’d insisted on so many colours). He could feel his team’s eyes on him, but he was so sure, concentrating so carefully, that it didn’t matter. 

Finally he put in the 400th point and stepped back. Most of the dots were clustered in the UK, but there were several on the Continent and a few scattered across the Americas.

“What do you see?” he called to the others. 

“A geographical profile of Moriarty’s activities?” Philip asked. Then he peered closer. “Hang on, is that—” 

“I need to do this on the computer,” Greg admitted. “But I just needed to get it down.” 

“There’s actually a pattern,” Elliott said in shock. 

And there was. It wasn’t a spiral, or phi, or anything blatant, but there were lines of regularity.

“This repeats for all these six years I’ve looked at so far,” Greg said, bewildered. “I’m going to keep looking, see if this pattern continues, and if these outliers become part of it.” 

“This is just geographical, right?” Sally said. “The colours you use are just—” 

“They’re just years,” Greg confirmed. “I think there’s something there for the types of crimes, but it’s not this clear yet.” 

“You know what this means, right?” Stan asked.

“I think I might,” Greg replied, “but I want to hear what you think.” 

Stan peered closer, but Greg knew the kid already knew the answer. “It’s too specific to be chance,” he said at last. “But he only consults, he’s not making all of these plans.

That means he’s got a system of how he picks his crimes.”

Greg nodded. “And the pattern we’re seeing? I’d bet good money that it’s from some kind of advanced maths.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody panic, this story is not going to become a math(s) lesson, I promise!   
Also, Cobble's Knot is a reference to an actual knot in a book called Maniac Magee, which is an interesting read.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	18. The Yellow Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Janine continue the work of informing blackmail victims of their new freedom, and in the process help a family come together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references both 'The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle' and 'The Yellow Face', but somewhat modernized.

  
It was strange to see gardens in winter, Molly reflected as they walked up Lucy Trivald’s drive. There wasn’t quite enough snow to hide the lopsided, tell-tale shapes of bushes in the beds, the faint outline of paths, or the structure of what was clearly a well-loved garden. But nothing grew in it, and the wind rustled dry, dead leaves. 

  
This was the second house they’d been to that day. The first was to a man who’d been paying blackmail to keep his mother from finding out that he’d once stolen a beautiful blue diamond; the man who was accused in his place had nearly gone to prison, but the case collapsed at the last minute. When Ryder found out that he was free from blackmail, he collapsed himself into a chair. 

  
“I did everything I could to help poor Stoker,” he cried. “But I couldn’t—Mum’s only got me, and I’ve hated myself every day since. I still have the sodding diamond.” 

  
When Janine tried to gently explain that it was possible he would get some of his blackmail money back, Ryder protested vehemently. 

  
“I don’t deserve a penny of it. I was happy to pay it; it meant I wouldn’t leave Mum on her own. If you’re going to give the money to someone, set it up for her, where I can’t touch it. I still don’t trust myself—” 

  
Once Ryder calmed, they’d had a nice cup of tea with him and his Mum, and after some research Janine reported that Stoker was doing well; he’d actually met his wife in court, and they were happy. With that they left the house, and moved on to something more serious. 

Lucy Gene Trivald had made a name for herself about four years before. She was American, but had fallen in love with the British gardens of the Victorian age, and came over to learn how to imitate and eventually modernize them. She’d formed a partnership with Catherine Norbury three years ago, and that’s when the blackmail began. 

  
Molly looked at Janine. “How do you want to handle this one?” 

  
“Let’s see who opens the door, first,” Janine muttered. “If it’s the wife that changes things.” 

  
They rang the doorbell and not two seconds later Catherine Norbury appeared at the door. She was well-known in her own right as a champion rider, and Molly recognized her sweep of red curls and bright black eyes. But she looked absolutely terrified when she saw them. 

  
“Who are you?” 

  
“My name is Janine Hawkins, and this is my friend Molly.” Janine smiled reassuringly. “You’re Catherine Norbury, right?”

  
“Yes. I’m afraid it’s not a very good time—” 

  
“We’re here to see your wife,” Molly said quickly. She thought that would help, but instead Catherine went even paler. 

  
“Are you her girlfriends too?” 

  
“What?”

  
Catherine glanced to the left, and Molly followed her gaze to the yellow cottage. 

  
“We’ve never met your partner before, Catherine,” Janine said firmly. “She was a…client of my boss, and I came to discuss the ending of that arrangement, seeing as he’s died.” 

  
Catherine regained a little bit of colour in her face. “Well. Well, that’s good.” 

  
“Do you think your wife’s being unfaithful?” 

  
“Something’s happening.” Catherine’s face hardened. “She keeps going into that yellow house, and she won’t let me in, and I—I’m tired of it!” 

  
Molly remembered the note. SC. “Catherine, I think we should get this cleared up straight away. Come on, let’s go over!” 

  
Catherine only hesitated for a second, but then she all but ran down the stairs and Molly and Janine hastened to follow.

  
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Molls?” Janine hissed. 

  
“Might as well rip the band-aid off,” Molly whispered back. “Besides, we know that’s not what’s happening…"

  
Ahead of them, Catherine flung open the door of the yellow building, and Molly hurried to catch up. In doing so, she nearly bumped into Catherine, who’d stopped two feet into the room. Molly craned her neck to see over her shoulder, uncertain of what she would see. 

Lucy stood in the room, her dark eyes wide with terror. Another woman was in the room, looking enough like her to be her sister. But Catherine wasn’t looking at either of them. Her eyes were fixed on the third occupant of the room. 

  
A little girl with bright blue eyes and long curly black hair sat in a wheelchair next to Lucy. She was clutching a stuffed bear, looking up at Lucy in confusion.

  
“Lucy?” Catherine said at last. “Lucy, who is that child?” 

  
Lucy closed her eyes. “She’s mine,” she said at last. “Her name is Meredith.” 

  
Catherine didn’t speak. 

  
“It’s alright, Lucy,” Molly said gently. “Charles Magnussen is dead. No one can hurt you for this anymore.” 

  
Lucy’s eyes went wide. “Really?” 

  
“We’re going to get you the money back too,” Janine promised. “I worked for him, and now I’m going to tear his work apart.” 

  
Catherine cleared her throat. “What’s the story here, Lucy?” 

  
Lucy looked at her partner helplessly. “Cat—” 

  
“I’m not angry, Lucy. I just want the truth.” 

  
Lucy took a deep breath. “Fine. You’re right, you deserve that much. I’ll start with my name. My name wasn’t Lucy when I was born. I was born Angelina Lucia in Florida, many years ago. This is my cousin, Tia.” 

“Your cousin?”

  
“Yes.” Lucy smiled at Tia. “We’ve always been close. We always got in trouble together, and then we got ourselves out.” Her smile faded. “But then we married into the same gang.” 

“Gang?” 

  
“It was more of a cartel,” Lucy admitted. “The Hudson group was mostly focused on drugs.” 

  
Molly stared at her. “Hudson? As in Frank Hudson?” 

  
Lucy glared at her. “Yes, that’s the one. He—he killed my husband. And Tia’s.” 

  
Molly looked at Janine. “That’s Mrs. Hudson’s husband.”

  
Lucy nodded jerkily. “I recognize you now—you’re friends with her tenants, aren’t you?” 

  
“Yes.” Molly had never heard the whole story, but she knew enough. “You’re not angry with her, though.” 

  
“No. Martha had no idea what Frank was really capable of, and neither did any of we. We weren’t saints, none of us were. But we never hurt kids, we never dealt meth—in my head that was enough. And I loved Leroy so much.” 

  
“And I loved Jacob,” Tia chimed in. Her face was twisted. 

  
“But when they died we knew that we had to disappear,” Lucy said. “Martha helped us, and we ran north to stay with our family. We heard that the cartel was arrested, and that Martha escaped, but we didn’t know what to do next. Meredith was only a baby, and then—” Lucy’s throat caught on a sob. 

  
“There was an accident,” Tia jumped in. “Meredith was paralyzed from the waist down.” 

  
Lucy put her hand on her daughter’s head. “Around that time I found out that Martha had gone to England. It seemed like a good idea to go too, though we’d have to be somewhere else to avoid anyone tracking us down. So I decided—I decided to go ahead, find us a place to stay, somewhere we could take care of Meredith and give her a good life. So I…I went. I found a nice house in Bedfordshire, and as soon as Meredith could travel, Tia brought her over. By the time they got here I’d changed my name, cut my hair and finally conquered my anorexia. Even Tia didn’t recognize me when they arrived. Meredith did though, didn’t you, darling?” 

  
“Yes, Mama.” Meredith nestled as close to her mother as she could. Shy, then.

  
“I decided I’d try and do some gardening work, maybe write a blog,” Lucy continued. “And the blog took off like mad, and I decided it was time to risk going into public again. I didn’t want to hide my entire life, and this was a good way to test if people still recognized me. But no one did, and then I wrote a book, and then…then I met you, Catherine. And I fell in love with you; I felt that for the first time since Leroy died. I was happy.” 

  
“And then you told me about your brother, and I knew I could never tell you about my daughter.” 

  
Catherine looked horrified. “Oh, Lu…” 

  
“I know you had good reason to distrust people who called themselves bisexual, and I had no idea how to explain that you could trust me—other than telling you the truth about my criminal past, and how on earth would you trust me then? And you were so excited to get married when we were in Canada, and I knew that I should tell you then, but I just—I couldn’t. Tia could still take care of Meredith, and I went to visit whenever I could. And then Magnussen found out, so I had to pay out, and Tia and Meredith had to move. He wasn’t just going to tell you, he knew other people from the past, people who might want to hurt all three of us.” 

  
“And then Magnussen died,” Catherine said. “Three weeks ago, which is when they moved back, and you started disappearing over there. I thought you were having an affair, Lu.” 

  
“I just wanted to see Meredith again,” Lucy answered, tears in her eyes. “I hadn’t seen her in almost two years, and I didn’t think you’d notice. You’ve been so busy, and it seemed safe…” Her jaw tightened. “So there, now you know the whole truth. So what is to become of us, my child and me? Because I can’t turn my back on her again, Catherine, I—” 

  
Catherine walked forward without a word and knelt beside Meredith. She put her arms around the child and kissed the top of her head. “Hello sweetheart,” she said. “I’m your Mama’s wife. It’s very nice to meet you.” 

  
“Can we stay here, then?” Meredith asked curiously. 

  
“Not in this house, no. You’re going to live with me and Mama and your Auntie Tia in our blue house. How does that sound?” Catherine stood up and took Lucy’s hand. “I’m not a very good woman, Lucy. But I think I can do better than you thought.” 

  
Lucy’s face lit up, and she stepped aside so Catherine could grab hold of Meredith’s chair with her free hand. Tia smiled at the couple. “I’ll tidy up here, cousin. See you soon?”   
Lucy nodded, and she and Catherine pushed Meredith outside. 

  
Tia looked at Molly, who felt like she was in some sort of dream. 

  
“So the danger is gone from my cousin?” 

  
“And for you,” Janine answered. Her voice was shaky, and without thinking Molly took her hand. “Magnussen is gone, and I’m tidying up the loose ends of the evil. The records will be destroyed, and I’m going to do my best to get Lucy back all the money she gave.” 

  
Tia nodded. “That is good. She was so tired of keeping secrets.” 

  
“She probably shouldn’t have kept them from her wife in the first place,” Janine snapped.

  
“Jan!” Molly scolded. 

  
Tia sighed. “You don’t know Angela—Lucy. She loved Leroy with all her heart, and the day she saw his body…I was worried she would kill herself. The only reason she didn’t was Meredith, and when she saw that I could care for Meredith, that there was enough money, and we were safe…I worried that she might go back to that. Catherine saved her life.”   
“Why did she keep Meredith a secret?” Molly asked gently. 

  
“Catherine’s brother killed himself four years ago,” Tia answered. “He’d crossed a woman because he wouldn’t let her off a DUI charge. In revenge, she had her girlfriend date him, pretend she was bisexual, and then she abused him, stole everything he had, and when they had a child, she—” 

  
“Oh god,” Molly whispered. 

  
“I told Angela that she was being too cautious,” Tia said. “Cat’s never shown a hint of biphobia, she just hates that bitch. But all Angela could see was that she’d loved a man, she was a criminal…she didn’t want to lose her, and I didn’t want her to lose her either. I know it wasn’t the right way, but it’s been a long time since either of us knew the exact right thing to do.” 

  
Janine sighed. “I’m sorry. I was harsh. I just—I have a friend who lied to me for years. I’m still not sure if I can forgive her.” 

  
Tia bit her lip. “I don’t know your story, but I do know that secrets have a story most of the time. If you haven’t heard that story from your friend yet, you might want to listen. You might hear something you want to know.” 

  
Janine just shrugged. Tia nodded to Molly. “I think you should take care of her for now,” she suggested. “I can let my cousin know about the money.” 

  
Molly nodded and put her arm through Janine’s. “Come on, Jan. I don’t think we’re needed here anymore.” 

  
Janine just nodded, and followed Molly to the car. The driver looked at them curiously, but Molly shook her head. “We need to go back to London, please.” 

  
The driver nodded, and he started the car as Molly helped Janine in. The partition was closed already. Bless Mycroft’s mostly discreet drivers. 

  
Janine buckled her seatbelt, but she did nothing else, looking forward as the car began to move. 

  
“Janine?” Molly’s heart sank. Could she say anything that would help, anything at all? She’d never been lied to like that—well, not longer than three weeks. No, there was nothing that she could say. 

  
Instead she reached over, and took Janine’s hand in hers. Janine held on to Molly’s, and when Molly looked at her face, she saw that she was crying. 

  
All Molly could do was hold her hand, and hope that it was enough to give Janine time to think. 

  
Because Tia was partly right. People had plenty of reasons for keeping secrets; she’d kept Sherlock’s survival a secret until just a year before. And she, of course, thought her reasons were good. 

  
But she’d apologized for the secrets, and Mary hadn’t. 

  
So why was Janine responsible for fixing this? 

  
On the other hand, who was ever going to fix it? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, I did indeed include Mrs. Hudson's backstory even more, because I think it's fascinating and I wanted to tie up the threads I introduced several chapters ago.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	19. Pre-Parenting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Watsons get to have some private time together, even if it's at a distance.

John sat down at the computer. “We’re certain this is secure?” 

  
“For the sixteenth time, yes.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Now call your wife already. I’ll be in my room, giving you privacy, and I will have earphones in.”

“We’re not going to be having cyber sex, Sherlock!” 

“Why not? You’ve done that before.” 

John glared at his friend. “Sherlock, first of all you’re not supposed to know about that. And secondly, we’ve got twenty minutes, and Mary is pregnant.” 

“So if it was thirty, then.” 

John willed away a blush. “Maybe. Go away!” 

“I’m going, I’m going. Say hello to Mary for me, will you?” 

John waved his hand. “Now go on.” 

John took a deep breath the moment that Sherlock closed his door. He was still nervous about talking to Mary face to face. They’d been talking by telephone every night, and they still texted and talked through the chat. But he hadn’t seen Mary in person since that day at Bart’s. And even before then it had only been about a week since they’d reconciled, and that time had been bound up with worry about Sherlock and carefully feeling out their relationship. In that week, John still hadn’t gotten used to the idea that Mary could read him nearly as well as Sherlock, that she didn’t need to hear him explain most things, and that she wasn’t precisely the woman that he’d married. She wasn’t the stranger he’d feared, but Mary was still…well, she was a mystery. 

But she was his wife and the mother of his child, and John had already committed to solving that mystery. 

John clicked on the window, and the screen turned purple, a small flower in the middle, bouncing up and down. John was confused for just a moment, but then the screen resolved itself and Mary’s face filled the screen. 

“Hello darling!” Mary was beaming. “How are you?” 

“Doing alright. Lots of walking about, but we’ve gotten a fair bit of the city covered now, so that’s good. Any news with your informants?” 

“Nothing yet, although really we don’t want there to be anything, right? We need them to stay nice and cozy, or it means trouble.” 

John nodded. “Mary…maybe could we not talk about why we’re not in the same room right now?” 

Mary’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes, of course.” 

“How’s Baby?” 

“Baby’s doing well.” Mary put her hand on her stomach. “She’s kicked a few more times, and everything else is going smoothly.” 

John nodded, his throat tight. “I feel rather useless,” he admitted. “You’re doing all the work right now, and I haven’t supported you, and all those months—” 

“John, I’m not angry with you for not wanting to speak to me until you made up your mind.” Mary leaned forward. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that my prenatal vitamins never ran out. Or that work kept calling me out. Or that all my favourite foods were always ready. You were always taking care of me, my love. It meant a lot.” 

“No matter what happened to us, I wanted to make sure that you and the baby got through healthy and happy. You were giving me a child. I was grateful for that. I still am.”

Mary smiled. “That’s my sweet romantic. Also, I keep getting notifications about things in our Amazon cart?” 

“Right—forgot to tell you. Since I can’t go baby supply shopping in a store, I’ve been getting things ready to go online. I picked out a pram and some toys and the crib and such; just things we’ll need for the nursery. And nappies. So many nappies.”

“We’ll need them for three years, I’m sure you can’t buy too many. Especially since I see you’ve been buying them in different sizes.” 

“It’s good to be ready! I’ve looked for some clothes, but I’m not sure that I’ve got very good taste.” 

“I love the little jungle suit you got, it’s adorable. And the other ones are nice; I’m just glad it’s not an explosion of pink.”

“I got a few pink things,” John replied. “But I want to get loads of colours, that way Baby can choose her favourites and we can buy accordingly.” 

“That’s very thoughtful.” Mary smiled at him. She rested her head on her hand. “You’re going to do a great job at being a Dad, John.” 

“Are you sure about that?” John asked. “What if our baby is as smart as you? I won’t be able to help her much.” 

“You’ve helped me more than you could ever know,” Mary said firmly. “Don’t be stupid.” 

John rolled his eyes. “You realize that those two statements are contradictory, right?” 

“Not the point, John.” 

John sighed. “Mary, you know I love you, right?” 

Mary’s smile softened. “I do, love. I do.” 

“And I—I didn’t love you because I smelled danger or something. Sherlock’s wrong about that. What I saw with you was just…I saw a future. A future with someone I loved.” John managed a smile. “Not that this isn’t exciting, knowing more about who you are.” 

Mary smiled. “Well, it’s funny. I’ve been more myself with you than I’ve been with anyone since I was…oh, probably twenty. You gave me that security. I figured if you knew Sherlock Holmes, then you had a tolerance for eccentricity.” 

“It’s my greatest gift,” John said seriously. “It is—I’d be bored to tears if I couldn’t have this part of my life. If I couldn’t have my family. Really, you’re all very strange.” 

“Hilarious,” Mary said. “Also, Molly and Jan—Janine, they aren’t that strange.” 

“You need to talk to her, Mary,” John said gently. He’d hoped the two of them would work it out, but so far there was no real indication of that. 

“I don’t know how,” Mary confessed. She winced and put a hand on her stomach. “I know exactly how I hurt you, because you’ve never lied to me. But Janine had a lot of secrets from me just by the nature of her job, so I didn’t think it would be such a big deal. I don’t know how I could ever convince her that I’m sorry and I mean it.” 

“You’d better do it soon,” John replied. “The longer that takes, the harder it’s going to be, and the longer it will take for her to trust you again, let alone be friends.” 

“Do you think she’ll listen?” 

“I think she’s been waiting for you this whole time. And if you don’t make the first move, how is she going to know that you want to make things work? I’m not saying you give her a stick, but you need to give her something.” 

Mary took in a shaky breath. “You’re right, darling. I will. I promise.” 

“Good.” John looked toward Sherlock’s door and saw that it was still shut tightly. “I rather wish we could have a different sort of video chat.” 

“Oh, you have no idea. Pregnancy hormones are awful when you’re so far away. I’ve been using our toy collection rather liberally, but it doesn’t compare to you.” 

“We’ll have to talk to Mycroft about having a sleepover. Although I’m not sure he’ll go for that—” 

“He’s been having sleepovers somewhere for the last few days, so he can’t say a word.” 

John’s eyebrows shot up. “Has he?” 

“Yeah. The first night he said he was going to see an old friend, but he didn’t come back until almost 10. In the morning. And then he’s been out a couple times a week, and most of the time he doesn’t get home until morning or early afternoon. I know you spend odd hours with Sherlock, but this—” 

“Yeah, that is definitely weird for Mycroft. Keep an eye on him—if he’s keeping secrets like this, maybe he’s hiding more.” 

“Maybe. I’m on the case, Dr. Watson.” Mary saluted him. 

John blew her a kiss. “I miss you darling. We’ll be together again soon. Talk to the baby for me, will you? I’ve been recording my voice for her; can you play the tape when you get it?”

“Don’t worry, John. She’ll know you, and she’ll love you as much as I do.” There were tears in Mary’s eyes. “I love you, and I’ll see you soon. Get some sleep, okay?” 

“I will. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson send their love, and I love you and Baby forever. Bye, darling.” 

“Bye, love.” 

Mary’s face faded back into the purple, and John put his head on the table and wept. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never liked that in the show Sherlock said John "knew Mary was dangerous". No the hell he did not, he just loved her for who she was with him. Having said that, John is no longer unhappy about this development...and he might find it hot. Maybe.   
Yes, yes he does.   
Oh, any guesses on John and Mary's daughter's name? If you've read my stuff before you might already know, but you may still be surprised.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	20. Letting It Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly shares her past with Moriarty with Janine, and it's more than anyone ever knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: this chapter is ugly. Like genuinely full of ugly things done to Molly in the past, and they include physical and sexual abuse as well as animal abuse, both committed and attempted. Please take care of yourselves.

“So what exactly have we learned from all these interviews?” Molly asked. 

She and Janine were both slouched in their respective seats, Toby sitting on Molly’s lap. They’d gone through their short list of likely cases, and they’d both been staring at their summaries for the better part of an hour.   
“Well, we know that Magnussen was a bastard,” Janine said. “And we’ve got a few sources narrowed down, and they have ties to Moriarty.” 

  
Molly nodded. Lucy, as it turned out, had been betrayed by a former member of Frank Hudson’s cartel, and he’d joined another cartel shortly after Frank was arrested. That cartel was run by one of Moriarty’s American associates; her name came up multiple times in Greg’s reports from Florida. Ryder’s case seemed to be tied to the “Christmas Goose” forum for people to earn points towards holiday spending, which had shut down due to charges of money laundering. Again, it linked back to Moriarty. 

  
“But we’re not sure that they actually worked together on those cases. Maybe it’s a coincidence.” 

  
Janine shook her head. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and a few stray locks of hair framed her beautiful face.

Molly blinked. Beautiful?

  
“Magnussen was too careful to step on people’s toes,” Janine answered. “If their paths crossed, it was on purpose.” She put her pen between her teeth as she straightened her shirt and sat up. 

  
Yes, beautiful.  
“Alright. But we still don’t have much to offer.” 

  
“Nobody really does, Molls. We’re still gathering information.” 

  
“I know, I know.” Molly buried her face in her hands. “I just wish we could’ve found something better. Faster.” 

  
“Molly, can I ask you something?” 

Molly looked up and met Janine’s eyes, which looked nervous all of a sudden. “I suppose you just did, but yes, you can.” 

  
Janine fidgeted. “Well, I—look, I’m a good listener. I’ve had to be. And I know that there’s more to your story with Moriarty than anyone else seems to know. And I suppose I’m wondering if you want to talk about it?” 

  
Molly looked away. “I don’t know.” 

  
“You don’t have to, I just— I thought I might be able to help. I know what kind of damage men like Magnussen can do. And I know how sometimes secrets just feel like knives, especially when the people you’re close to have no idea that they’re twisting them deeper.” 

  
Molly stared at her hands, which were shaking. Intermittent tremors; she had two of them. She was still cleared for autopsies, because the therapist she’d seen four times between…between then and Sherlock’s Fall…she’d confirmed that it was because of a trigger, and as long as she kept on her therapy and staying away from that trigger, she would be fine. 

  
Molly wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but it was enough for work, so she could still lose herself there and not think about IT, not about Jim from IT… 

  
“The Internet was down,” Molly said at last. “So I went down to IT to see what could be done. That’s where I met him. He was the new guy, he said, but he’d do everything he could to help me. He got it fixed and we started talking. He told me that he’d never seen such a pretty girl doing such depressing work, and he…he listened. No one really listened to me then.” 

  
Not since her Dad died. Mum tried, she still tried, but she just wasn’t a good listener. She was much better at distracting Molly from her worries with chatter, and sometimes that worked, but she missed the attentive silence Dad had always given her. 

  
“So we started to spend more time together. He and I would have lunch, or send each other silly emails, and we walked home from work together. He lived close to me. And finally I invited him in.” 

  
Molly looked up at Janine. “I wasn’t a virgin or anything like that, but it’d been a long time since I’d had any kind of physical intimacy. But he was so sweet, and he cared, and he was patient. So we went to bed. And when it was over, we just talked, talked about everything. My Dad had only died the year before, and he let my talk about that. Even Mum wouldn’t let me—it broke her when he died.” 

  
“So you trusted him.” 

  
Molly nodded. “And then we didn’t have sex again; when he came over he just watched Glee with me—yes, I know it was a stupid show—” 

“It doesn’t matter if it was stupid if you enjoyed it,” Janine interrupted. 

  
Molly nodded. “That’s what I said at the time. And then—well, then he met Sherlock as Jim from IT, and Sherlock said he was gay, and I asked him, and he laughed and told me not to be stupid. He said that a lot. And then he kidnapped John, and he met Sherlock at the pool—” Molly stopped. This was the difficult part. This was the part she’d never shared, the part that not even Sherlock could read on her face. 

  
“He came over that night, and he was so angry. It didn’t seem that way at first, he just told me that he’d enjoyed himself with me, but our relationship had to come to an end. And when I asked him why, he told me not to flatter myself that it was because of Sherlock.” 

  
Janine sucked in a breath.

  
“He grabbed me,” Molly said, “and he tied me on my knees and made me suck his cock. He didn’t even have to hurt me—all he promised was that he wouldn’t give Toby the antidote he needed. And I could see him on the floor, I knew he was ill. So I did it. And while I did, he just talked, and he told me everything…everything he could see in me, everything that made me weak and undesirable. Hopeless, he called me. Hopeless, worthless, one of those people who die in a car accident and people say ‘oh, that’s a shame, she was young’, and then move on with their day. And he told me that he wasn’t going to make that happen, nothing like that, but that I was going to pay him back for all the time he wasted with me. He was going to be entertained.” 

  
Molly gulped, felt Toby in her lap, leaned back against the couch and tried to curl in on herself. 

  
“We were together for five weeks, and so the next five weeks were all the same. He’d come, usually in disguise, after I got home from work. And he’d tie me again like that and then he would tell me what was going to happen to me the next day. Some days weren’t so bad—I would lose my purse on the Tube but I could get it back at the lost and found after work, my fridge would be emptied…those days weren’t so bad. But then—there were other days that were worse. Like the day I got second degree burns because someone ‘accidentally’ spilled boiling water on me, or when I got beaten in an alley. He actually encouraged me to try and avoid this stuff happening, because it would be more fun. And it didn’t matter what I did, it would happen, so I just stopped trying.” 

  
“But then he told me that he was going to have Toby skinned, the day before my time was up. Right in front of me, no matter what I did. He even said he was going to be generous, and if I managed to stop him he would never bother me again, and no matter what happened with Sherlock, I wouldn’t be touched.” 

  
“So the minute he left that night I packed Toby in his carrier and got on a plane to Dublin, but I bought two tickets, and the other one was to Glasgow. The minute I got to Dublin I started walking with Toby up and down the streets…I walked for hours and hours, and I always made sure there were people around. I don’t know if anyone was actually there, but at midnight I got a text saying that it was over. I wasn’t worth the effort.” 

  
Molly buried her head in her hands, letting the tears come. Toby was nuzzling at her shoulder, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped; the images hadn’t gone away, the smell and sound and taste of those long horrible nights were still there. Five years did nothing for that kind of pain, apparently. 

  
But then she felt careful arms around her, not squeezing, not trying to stop her, but solid against her shoulder and waist, and Molly cried harder from relief. She fell against Janine, curling into her and clinging with all her strength. 

  
Janine tightened her hold, and she leaned her cheek against Molly’s head. There was a faint scent of oranges; her body scrub, the one Molly wasn’t sure if she was allowed to use. And over her sobs, Molly could hear Janine singing. It wasn’t a song she recognized—in fact, when Molly listened more closely, it wasn’t even in English. But it was steady, the notes flowing over her, and even when Molly gasped into a sob, the song didn’t stop. 

  
Janine started rocking her back and forth, and Molly relaxed just a bit, just enough to realize that Janine wasn’t going to let go of her, and she wasn’t going to stop singing. 

  
So Molly let go. 

Janine didn’t let go, not even when sobs turned to hiccups, and then Molly was silent, tears slowing until they stopped altogether. Through it all Janine continued to sing, repeating the same song as she rubbed Molly’s back. 

  
Finally, Molly found her voice. “Thank you.” She was hoarse and quiet—it sounded like she was utterly drained. She had been. 

  
Janine bent forward just a bit as she finished the song, and Molly clung to her, but she was just reaching for one of the biscuits on the plate. She held it up to Molly, and when Molly tried to take it, shook her head. “Let me.” 

  
So Molly opened her mouth and carefully ate the biscuit, letting the chocolate coat her lips. Janine sat patiently until she was finished. 

  
“There. Chocolate’s always good after a cry.” 

  
“Yeah?” Molly wiped her eyes. “Thank you,” she repeated. “I’ve never been able to—to tell anyone.” 

  
“Why is that?” Janine asked gently. “I’m not judging, mind. I’ve never told anyone the full story of what happened between Magnussen and I. But you have people who would have dropped everything to help you.” 

  
“I didn’t know that then,” Molly said quietly. “I had no idea…I knew that Sherlock would try, just for the challenge, but I didn’t want to bother him. Unrequited love is horrible for trusting people. As for the others…we weren’t really that close. Besides…I knew I wasn’t in any real danger. Moriarty is a monster, but he’s always kept his word. So I essentially got a get out of jail free card—” 

  
“In exchange for five weeks of hell,” Janine interrupted. “Molls, you were suffering. And then you had to keep a secret and watch people grieve around you. No, I don’t think you got out of jail free.” 

  
Molly blinked hard, amazed that she still had tears in her. “No one’s ever told me that,” she whispered. “Everyone’s been so kind, but I know that John…John hasn’t forgiven me.” 

  
“You’re wrong.” Janine took her hands. “Molls, you’re wrong. He doesn’t blame you at all; he told me that he was just glad that it wasn’t him who had to do all of that.” 

  
“I didn’t want to do it,” Molly whispered. “I never would have done it if Sherlock’s life wasn’t at stake.” 

  
“You did a great job of a thankless task. That’s pretty wonderful.” 

  
They sat in silence for a while. 

  
“Do you…” Molly took a deep breath. “Do you want to talk about what happened to you?” 

  
Janine tensed. “I don’t think I can do that right now. And I don’t think you can either. We just had a difficult conversation, and I’m not…not ready to talk yet. I will though, I promise.” 

Molly smiled. “I’ll listen whenever you need my help. Okay?” 

  
“Thanks, Molly. I appreciate that.” Janine pet Toby. “I think we should talk to the others about this.”

  
Molly shook her head, her chest constricting. “No, I don’t—I don’t want them to know—” 

  
“Why?” 

  
“I’m sure there’s a statute of limitations on sympathy.” 

  
“That’s rubbish, Molly whatever-your-middle-name-is Hooper. I think that you’ve been holding this back for too long, and you don’t deserve that.” 

  
“I don’t know.” Molly looked at Janine. “Will you stay with me?” 

  
“Of course.” Janine took out her phone. “Let’s do this now.”

* * *

  
“I’m going to murder him,” John said flatly. 

  
Thanks to Janine’s urging, they’d abandoned their text chat briefly to speak by video. Molly had gone over the story again, and somehow it was easier the second time, even knowing that it would affect her so badly. This time she still cried, but holding Janine’s hand helped ground her in the present. 

  
It also helped her to cope with the horror on her friends’ faces. 

  
“Molly, I am so sorry,” Sherlock mumbled. He’d been standing at the start of the call, but now he was sitting on the couch at Baker Street. “I should have seen it.”

  
“You couldn’t have known, I didn’t tell you. I lied to you.” 

  
“I shouldn’t have made you feel like you had to lie to me.” 

  
Molly just nodded. “I’m not angry, Sherlock. I’m not angry with any of you. I just didn’t—I didn’t know how to say anything. I thought if I was dealing with it alone, it would be easier. That wasn’t true.” 

  
“You’ve been seeking therapy, correct Ms. Hooper?” Mycroft asked. 

  
“Yes. I’ve been going for the last three years once a month.” And before that it was once a week.

  
“Was it all covered?” 

  
“No, but it’s alright, it—” 

  
“You were wounded,” Mycroft answered. “And you saved my brother’s life, even when he was being an ungrateful arsehole. You’ll receive funds in your account shortly.” 

  
“I don’t need—”

  
“I know,” Mycroft cut in. “But perhaps this money will bring you some joy, as you spent your other money on healing. Please accept this, Molly.” 

  
Molly remembered Sherlock, in a fit of rage, saying “my dear brother throws money at people because he has nothing else to give!” That wasn’t true; Molly could see it in Mycroft’s eyes. He just knew how to give that best, and the people he cared about deserved only the best. 

  
“Thank you, Mycroft.” 

  
“Has Moriarty been in contact with you since he’s returned?” 

“No.” Thank God. “I’ve changed my number since then several times, and I haven’t seen any kind of sign. If he’s trying to contact me, he’s doing a shit job.” 

  
Janine chuckled. “That’s my girl. You won’t hear from him though, Molls. I’ll make sure of it.” 

  
John looked puzzled. “How exactly are you going to do that?” 

  
To Molly’s shock, Janine reached into her shirt, fumbled a bit around her bra, and then drew out a sheathed knife. 

  
“Where the hell did you get that?” John asked, eyes wide. 

  
“My bras have pockets,” Janine said evenly. “Mary gave it to me, actually.” 

Mary Watson nodded. She looked like she was about to speak, but she closed her mouth without a word. 

  
“I’ve got another one in my boot,” Janine told Molly, deliberately not looking at Mary. “And I know how to use them. I can protect you.” 

  
“You don’t have to do that.” 

  
“I know. But I’m going to do it anyways.” 

  
Molly smiled. Then she peered at the screen. “Mycroft, are you and Greg at the same place?”

  
Greg looked puzzled. “Yes, we are. Mycroft came over to—to help with security issues.”

  
Molly narrowed her eyes. “Really? Because you’d think he’d go over in more than pajamas.” 

  
There was a long pause. 

  
“Goddamn it, Molly.” Greg rubbed his face. “It was supposed to be a secret a bit longer.” 

  
“Wait—what?” Sherlock sputtered. “You and—and my brother?” 

  
“Yes,” Mycroft said with a sigh. He took Greg’s hand. “We were going to tell you all once this is over—”

  
“You said you were going to help an old friend!” Mary accused. 

  
“I did. Greg and I have been friends for nearly a decade. We are lovers now, but before—” 

  
“Details are not necessary, brother!” Sherlock said quickly. “Not in the slightest.” 

  
Molly smiled. “Are you two happy?” 

  
“Yes,” Greg and Mycroft said at the same time.

“Then that’s wonderful. I’m glad we have some good news.” 

  
Greg looked stricken. “I didn’t mean to take over—” 

  
“No,” Molly cut in. “My story’s been told, and that’s all I really needed. Let’s move on, then.” She saw Sherlock frown. “I mean it,” she continued. “I’m not okay, and I’m scared to death, but I also know that the fastest way for me to become okay is for that story to just…be heard. I don’t have to hide anymore. Now, I want details. When did you two get together?” 

  
Molly was telling the truth. Those ten weeks with Jim had been her secret alone for so long, and the relief of lifting that secret felt like the best rush she’d had in years. Now it was easy to talk with the group and delve into Mycroft and Greg’s relationship and then share their progress. 

  
But maybe, just maybe, it felt so easy because Janine never let go of her hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to end that on a more positive note because writing it made me very nauseous, and reading it over again now before posting it was also very difficult. This is one of the darkest chapters, with a few more that delve into ugly territory, but not to this extent.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	21. An Unexpected Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary's confronted by her past...and it's a good thing too, or she would be dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE GUEST STAR INCOMING!!!!  
Past violence against women, and murder.

Mary sighed as she wiped her mouth. “The morning sickness is supposed to stop after the first trimester,” she told her daughter. 

  
That wasn’t strictly true, of course, because every woman’s pregnancy was different. But vomiting six months in was becoming frustrating. 

  
Mary heaved herself to her feet, and started to wash her hands. They were shaky and swollen, rather like the rest of her. She’d started gaining weight significantly in the last two weeks, and Mycroft had very kindly gotten her maternity clothes which fit…exactly. And could expand when she (and her daughter) inevitably grew larger. And they all had pockets. 

  
“You could run a fashion empire,” she’d told him, “and I’d buy all of it.” 

  
Mycroft didn’t appear to give her suggestion much thought, which seemed to be par for the course lately. After that first round of attacks, Mary hadn’t been allowed to leave the flat except in one of Mycroft’s cars, and even then they could only drive around. Mary thought about protesting, but it was useless. She wouldn’t get out of the car even if she could. If something happened to their baby, and it was her fault, she wouldn’t wait for John’s reaction. She’d shoot herself. 

  
There were footsteps outside as Mary swirled water in her mouth. High heels, which made her sigh. 

  
“One second, Anthea.” Mary checked her reflection and made sure that she was reasonably clean; no visible vomit, no running mascara. 

  
The door opened behind her, and Mary turned around, ready to give Anthea a piece of her mind. Mycroft’s people might all have impeccable manners, but that unstoppable force met the immovable object that was a complete disregard for privacy. 

  
This woman wasn’t Anthea, though. She was shorter, with short red hair and dark brows. She wasn’t wearing a suit—in fact, she was wearing a pair of overalls over a tie-dyed T-shirt, and her trainers were frayed.

  
She also looked rather familiar. 

  
“Who are you?” Mary asked.

  
“If you have to ask that, you’re already in danger, and you know that.” 

  
It was the voice that did it. It had come out of a very different looking face before—more than once—but it was too distinctive to forget. 

  
“Addie?” Mary gasped. 

  
The Woman smiled. “You know better than that, Mrs. Watson, or hasn’t your husband told you? I go by Irene now.” 

  
“And I go by Mary.” Mary shifted her weight. There was no point in putting up a fight, Addie—no, Irene—wasn’t going to attack her. Not yet. 

  
“Of course. But Rosamond is such a pretty name.” 

  
“Too much of a risk.” 

  
“Fair enough.” Irene smiled at her. “Don’t be too concerned about your past, Mary. After all, if it wasn’t for that, you’d be dead right now.” She beckoned. “Come on, you need to sit down. No need to talk in here.” 

  
“What the hell do you mean?!” Mary snapped. 

  
“I mean that James Moriarty hired me to kill you,” Irene answered. “And if it was anyone but you, I would have done it.” 

  
Mary should have been surprised, surprised to see the Woman again, and stunned to hear about the murder attempt. 

  
Instead she fell into Addie’s arms. 

  
“Fuck, I’ve missed you.” 

* * *

_Eight Years Earlier_

Rosamond was supposed to take down a target. The target knew he was in danger, but that wouldn’t stop her. The guards were so terrible she didn’t even have to shoot them, and she was in the house before the target returned from dinner with his latest eye candy. 

  
Rosamond watched as the couple came into the house. The target was easily old enough to be the woman’s father, and that was generally his way; sometimes they were young enough that he could be their grandfather. Not that Rosamond cared; this wasn’t one of her missions as Nemesis. This was a business deal gone wrong, and that was her only purpose. 

  
There were no guards in the bedroom, and the target was clearly intent on getting the woman into bed as quickly as possible. Rosamond still beat them there, and with a quick glance at the open closets chose the closed door of the armoire. There wasn’t much in here; equipment, an old television, a safe. Nothing you would need for sex; that was obvious from the box on the other side of the room, overflowing with sex toys and lingerie. She could wait in here until they were done, and then step out and kill the target. And the woman, if necessary. 

  
At least, that’s what Rosamond assumed. 

  
She didn’t at all account for the idea that wire hangers might be used in sex. Or that wire hangers weren’t kept in the box, but in this armoire. 

  
She certainly didn’t account for the door swinging open and the woman reaching in to grab something, and coming face to face with her. 

  
The woman didn’t speak, and neither did Rosamond. 

  
“Hurry up, Addie!” The target called. 

  
“Coming, pet,” Addie said. She gestured to the hangers, and Rosamond handed one to her mutely. Addie closed the door, and Rosamond allowed herself to breathe for a minute. 

  
She forced herself to listen to every moment of the ridiculously long sex that followed. Any moment Addie could betray her. If there was ever a pause, ever a breath, she would come out. She had a gun, and it was loaded. 

  
But a pause didn’t come. Instead, in the middle of the target’s howl of pleasure, there was a loud, sickening thud, and Addie shouted “quick, come out!” 

  
Rosamond didn’t hesitate. Addie was naked and leaning over her target, a stone vase in her hands. The target was probably going to die from brain damage as it was. 

  
“Kill him,” Addie said. She shoved hair out of her face. “You’ve got a silencer, I assume?” 

  
In response, Rosamond fired two shots into what was left of her target’s face. “Who are you?” she asked. 

  
“Someone who’s never going to be beholden to him again,” Addie answered. “Can you help me out of here?” 

  
Rosamond hesitated. 

  
“Oh come on, I could have killed you three different ways already!” 

  
“Fine. Come on then!” 

  
Addie grabbed hold of her dress and yanked it on, then followed Rosamond back down the hall. 

  
“Where are we going?” she asked, out of breath. 

  
“Out of this building, and back to my car.” 

  
“What direction is your car?” 

  
“To the west of the house.” 

  
Addie stopped. “Oh, we need to go this way.” She pointed—very clearly—in the direction of the east wing. 

  
“That’s the wrong—” 

  
“There’s a passage underground,” Addie explained. She crinkled her beautiful nose. “The monster doesn’t like seeing servants go home, so they have to go out that way. It leads that way, and fewer people will see us if we go that way.”

  
Rosamond hesitated, but the fear still in Addie’s eyes told her that the woman wasn’t lying. 

  
The two of them darted down the stairs. As Addie said, the passage turned sharply to the west after only fifty feet. The ceiling was low, and their footsteps echoed on the tiles. 

  
“Damn him,” Addie muttered. 

  
Rosamond looked at her, realizing for the first time that Addie was crying. “Are you injured?” she asked. 

  
“No, I’ll…I’ll be fine.” 

  
“You don’t look fine.” Rosamond helped to swing Addie over a patch of rough concrete—the woman was barefoot. “He’s dead now, you know. He can’t hurt you anymore, so you might as well tell me what he did to you.” 

  
“Oh yes, and leave my information in another killer’s hands? No thank you.” 

  
She had a point. 

  
“I don’t deal in information,” Rosamond said at last. “I deal in life and death. If you’re not my target, you’re not relevant to me.” 

  
Addie looked at her. “Why did you kill him?” 

  
“Gruner got into some gambling debts, and I believe his backers had enough.” 

  
“But his finances are fine!” Addie said. “I had to help him balance his books—fucking idiot. He’s making a profit of over 60 thousand quid a year.” 

  
“And the debt is less than 2 thousand,” Rosamond answered. “That’s why my client got so pissed off. There was no reason for having the debt.” 

  
“Bet he wishes that he’d paid now.”

  
“Fuck,” Rosamond swore, stopping in her tracks. 

  
“What?” 

  
“You killed him. I didn’t. I’m not going to get paid.” 

  
Addie stared at her for a second, and then she started to laugh, leaning against the wall. Rosamond grinned back, but then Addie started to shake with sobs instead of giggles. 

  
Shit. 

  
Rosamond had never been good with emotions. She had them, the whole spectrum—she wasn’t a full-on psychopath. But dealing with her own emotions was simple—repress the useless ones, let the useful ones loose. The emotions of others were much harder. 

  
She reached out, but Addie pushed her hand away and cried harder. 

  
“Okay,” Rosamond said. “Okay. I’m not going to touch you. Do you want me to keep talking?” 

  
Addie jerked her head. 

  
“Alright.” Rosamond thought about it. “You sound like you’re from Britain—somewhere in London? I’ve only been to London a few times. It’s a nice city, but I couldn’t get used to the other side of the road thing. Maybe that’s why the chicken crossed the road—to drive on the other side. I guess that makes us Americans chickens.” 

  
Addie choked out a laugh, her tears slowing down. “My God, you’re a strange woman.” She wiped at her eyes. “We should move again.” 

  
“Are you ready to?”

  
“Oh yeah.” 

  
By the time they reached Rosamond’s car, Addie seemed much calmer. “Sorry about falling apart like that,” she said as she pulled on her seatbelt. 

  
“That’s fine. I’m sure you needed it.” 

  
Addie sighed. “Yeah, I did. Look…do you want to make a deal?” 

  
“What sort of deal?” 

  
“I won’t tell anyone that I helped you kill Gruner, and you don’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.” 

  
“Deal,” Rosamond said without a second thought. 

  
“Okay.” Addie took a deep breath. “I…I had some trouble, a few months ago.” 

  
“Like what?” 

  
“Like I stole jewels. I was a burglar.” 

  
“Oh. What’s so bad about that?” 

  
“My parents are still alive,” Addie answered. “And if I love anyone at all it’s them. And my little brother…well. He’s ill. I didn’t want them to know. But I tried stealing from Gruner, and he threatened to tell unless I became his. So I did. He brought me here, I have no idea where it is—” 

  
“We’re in Florida,” Rosamond answered. 

  
“Oh. Well, I’d better find an embassy and get a new passport.” 

  
Rosamond gestured to her bag. “Actually, you might find it in there.” 

  
Startled, Addie obeyed and pulled out a slim UK passport. Rosamond had swiped it along with several others from the safe. “Why’d you steal these?” 

  
“To cover the debt,” Rosamond replied. “Passports go for quite a lot.” 

  
Addie shook her head. “This is far beyond what I’m used to.” 

  
“You did just kill a man.” 

  
“He deserved it.” 

  
“True. Where are you going to go, Addie?” 

  
“I’m going to go home, if I can scrape together enough cash. See my family, try to figure out how to trust people again.” 

  
“I’ll drop you off at the airport,” Rosamond said. “I’m heading there anyways, just flying domestic.” 

  
“I don’t have any—” 

  
“There should be some shoes in the back seat, and there’s a wallet with a credit card. It has a 20,000$ limit, that should be enough to get you back, right?” 

  
Addie stared at her. “Why are you helping me now?” 

  
“Because I think you’ve got something special in you,” Rosamond answered. “You have drive, and a logical mind. I think you can have whatever you want, as long as you remember this one lesson.” 

  
“And what’s that?” 

  
“You don’t have to play the short game with information. Sometimes you knowing things is enough, and you don’t have to threaten or use blackmail. If you can remember that, you might be able to build up a store of information, and who knows when that might come in handy?”

  
“So you’re not telling me to not become a blackmailer.” 

“I don’t like blackmail, but If you stay in the criminal world you’re going to have to do a lot of things you don’t like. You might as well do it smart.” 

  
Addie slipped on the shoes; they were a bit big, but not noticeably so. “I don’t know if I am going to stay a criminal. I just got a hard lesson in what happens when you fuck up.” 

  
“That makes it less likely that you’ll do it again.” Rosamond held her eyes for a second. “I mean it, Addie. You could do something fascinating.” 

  
They didn’t speak again the rest of the drive to the airport. They stopped once so Rosamond could change into more innocent looking clothes than all black, and they both applied makeup. 

  
When Rosamond pulled up to drop Addie off (she’d park the car and get her weapons in a moment), she looked at the woman, who seemed much more put together now. “If you need any more advice, here’s my card. Ignore whoever answers, and call straight back. Send any emails three times.” 

  
Addie took it. “You say that like you owe me. It seems more like I owe you.” 

  
“You’ll be fine,” Rosamond answered. “I’ll be interested to see your path.” 

  
Addie looked her right in the eyes. “I mean it. I owe you, and I won’t forget it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene and Mary knowing each other in the past is one of my favourite headcanons, and this story fit it perfectly.   
Back again, and this time for real, I am. I'm changing the posting schedule to every other day, so it's actually going to end up finishing a day before I planned originally. Please feel free to bother me if I miss a day again.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	22. Adding One In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another group chat entry, this time with a new person and a new plan.

**Chat Names**

PregMare: Mary  
CurlLocks: Sherlock  
DopeOnTheMic: Mycroft  
3ContWat: John Watson  
MHoops: Molly Hooper  
Gregless: Greg Lestrade  
Hudders: Mrs. Hudson  
Jan8: Janine  
AddsUp: Irene Adler

* * *

_PregMare added AddsUp to the group._

Jan8: Are we sure we trust her? 

  
CurlLocks: We can trust her.

  
AddsUp: You realize I can see this?

  
Jan8: Sure do. 

  
Gregless: Alright, now that that’s established…**AddsUp** what’s going on? And why are you on our side now? 

  
3ContWat: Are you on our side at all? 

  
AddsUp: Yours? Not particularly. But I am on your wife’s. So if you trust her, you trust me. 

  
3ContWat: Good enough for me. 

  
PregMare: :) Thank you darling. 

  
Gregless: Right, back to business. **AddsUp**? Want to take us all through it? 

  
AddsUp:Happy to. Moriarty figured out I was alive; his rats were watching some of my old haunts, and I slipped up. So he brought me back and told me all I had to do in order to stop him from killing me was to kill Mary Watson. He knew that Mary was staying with you…**DopeOnTheMic**? 

  
DopeOnTheMic: In case you couldn’t guess, the moniker was not my choice. How did he discover her whereabouts? 

  
AddsUp: Well…I was the one who found out. I saw you leaving **Gregless**’ flat at dawn on Tuesday, so I followed you. I knew that you had security to rival most other places in most countries, so if someone was pregnant they would be staying with you. Then I just waited for one of your ladies to slip out, and I slipped in. 

  
DopeOnTheMic: Logical. Well, since it’s all out in the open, Gregless might as well come and stay over. You can work from here. We’ll need to get a plan together to have Mary Watson “killed” as is. 

  
PregMare: Sorry, what? 

  
DopeOnTheMic: **AddsUp** is currently in danger, is she not? Her life depends on you being dead. We’ll have to plot that out, but it will take some doing to create a convincing death scene. 

  
3ContWat: I don’t want to see it. Not this fucking time.

  
PregMare: Fair enough. You are going to have to pretend to grieve. 

  
3ContWat: I’ll be fine on that score. 

  
CurlLocks: I’m sure you will. 

  
Gregless: I can get my team on it too. Unless we don’t want to bring them in? 

  
MHoops: Do you trust them? If you do, we might as well. Having extra people into this part isn’t the end of the world.

  
AddsUp: Why do you say that?

  
MHoops: They already know Moriarty’s back, and they’re helping on the case. They already have access to information. We can’t cut them out now or they’ll get suspicious, and if for some reason they are helping the Spider, we’ll be able to tell. 

  
PregMare: That’s good thinking, Molly. I’m just—well. This isn’t going to be easy. And it’s not like he’ll stop with me. 

  
3ContWat: Then we’ll have to stop him first. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can't tell, I really enjoyed writing the chat chapters. There's one more to come much later!  
Cheers,  
Acme


	23. The Spider As An Egg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's solved Moriarty's backstory. But what's really shocking is his thesis supervisor..

“I’ve got it!” Greg shouted. His eyes were wide as he read over the information again to be triply sure. It was four in the morning, after all. But he was right. “Mycroft, you’ve got to see this!” 

  
Mary came into the study instead, rubbing her eyes. “He’s in the shower. What did you find?” 

  
Greg spun the monitor around. “I found baby Moriarty.” 

  
“That child is at least nine.” 

  
“Sod you geniuses. Look though, that’s absolutely him, isn’t it?” 

  
Mary peered closer. It was a picture of a very ordinary little boy, to be sure, sitting against a pale gray backdrop. His black hair was parted in the middle, and he wasn’t smiling. 

  
“How do you know that it’s him?” 

  
“We’re working from the theory that the 'body' on the roof was Moriarty, right?” 

  
“Yes, because Molly and Sherlock said no one had been up or down the stairs.” 

  
“Well, I found that body, and for some fucking reason, that day I took a closer look. Moriarty has a birthmark on his right knuckles; it’s really small but very dark. Look at that kid’s right hand.” 

  
He waited for her reaction, and when her eyes went wide he knew he was right. 

  
“MYCROFT!” Mary shouted at the top of her lungs. “Get out of the shower!” 

  
The sound of water turning off upstairs was encouraging.

  
“Where did you find him?” Mary asked. “How—he’s so young here—” 

  
“Stan and I talked last night after you went to bed,” Greg answered. “And we were talking about how bloody stupid it was that we couldn’t find any record of Moriarty as a little boy when we knew full well that he’d murdered Carl Powers. And Stan reminded me that he and Sherlock thought that maybe the killer was older than Carl, but there’s no record of anyone at Carl’s school who looks anything like Moriarty, even under a different name. And Carl’s school was the only one who officially came from that part of the country.” 

  
“But, I dug a little deeper, and I actually called the pool and asked if they knew about events in the past. And they said no, but the janitor might know something, and they put her on. She was working there years ago as a swim instructor, and she told me that another school’s swimming team did come up to swim a week before the competition—sort of to decide who in the county would represent, but they didn’t qualify because their lead swimmer lost to Carl Powers. I got the name of the school, and I found him.” 

  
“Brilliant.” Mycroft came in wearing an extraordinarily fluffy dressing gown, still dripping from the shower. “Stunning, Gregory.” 

  
“It is brilliant,” Mary said, but she was frowning. “Do you think that it’s too brilliant? Maybe this was all fabricated, and Moriarty just created a fake photo.”

  
“No,” Mycroft said before Greg could defend himself. “After the incident with Moriarty and the pool a few years ago, I spoke to that woman. Her name is Margaret Nelson, correct?”

  
“Yes, that’s her.” 

  
“I vetted her thoroughly, Mary. Gregory has the right school.” 

  
Mary’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh, that’s wonderful. So what name is he bloody using?” 

  
Greg grinned. This was the part he was most excited about. “So the child in this picture is named James Anthony, and he was ten here.” That took a bit of the excitement away—a ten year old child murdering another child was never pleasant to contemplate. “There was a little article about him in the Brighton news about how promising a swimmer he was. I think people were surprised when Carl Powers beat him, honestly. Anyways, the article mentioned his mum, Laura Anthony, because she was a champion swimmer too. So I looked through the Laura Anthonys with children named James, and came up with his father’s name; he was David Anthony.” 

  
“Fascinating backstory,” Mary said, “but—” 

  
“No, listen, this all has a point.” Greg took a deep breath. “Laura and David stopped claiming James on their taxes about three years after Carl Powers was murdered, and said it was just the two of them living in the home. I did more digging, and I found out where he was claimed. He was claimed in Belfield, Ireland of all fucking places, by his father’s maternal cousin, Derek Moriarty. Derek Moriarty claimed him for the next five years, and then I suppose he was eighteen.” 

  
“So James Anthony became James Moriarty.” 

  
“Not yet. I put a call in to the department in Cork, and they told me that Derek Moriarty was a professor at the University College of Dublin. I took a look at the records for when James would have been eighteen, but there were no new students by that name. There weren’t any students by either name. But two years before, there was a new student by the name of Anthony James who won a load of prizes in math, and had very few friends.” Greg changed the picture. A blond man with a full beard and hair falling in his face scowled under a graduation hat. You had to look very hard indeed to see Moriarty underneath it. 

  
“He completed a bachelor’s in just under two years, and then did a master’s in applied mathematics , but in 2002 he changed his name again. Then it was Anthony Moriarty.” 

  
Mary and Mycroft stared at him. 

  
“I know that it’s not the end,” Greg said apologetically. “But I’ve only been at it a couple of hours, maybe when we keep looking we can find more useful—” 

  
Mycroft came around the desk and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Absolutely beautiful, Gregory,” he murmured. “Well done indeed.” 

  
Greg blushed, but he leant his head against Mycroft’s chest anyways. “Your dressing gown is really fluffy.” 

  
“It was a stupid gift from Sherlock years ago.” Mycroft put a hand on Greg’s head. “Oddly enough it’s the most comfortable dressing gowns I’ve ever had.” 

  
“So he was Anthony Moriarty legally.” Mary bit her lip. “That explains why we couldn’t get a lock on the right James. Is Derek alive?” 

  
“No, unfortunately. All of them are dead. Supposedly natural causes, but who knows with this maniac?” 

  
Mycroft suddenly looked more closely at the screen. “What year did he get his Master’s, Gregory?” 

  
“Er…1999.” 

  
“Can you look at who his professors were?” 

  
“I don’t know—I can try.” Greg went back into the school’s database. “It looks like he had a supervisor for his thesis, who was—” 

  
Mycroft sucked in a deep breath. “My God.” 

  
“What? What’s wrong?” 

  
Mycroft pointed at the name on the screen. “Professor Victoria Trevor,” he said. “That’s my mother.”

  
******  
“Our mother taught Moriarty.” Sherlock shook his head. “Our mother.” 

  
Half the people in the room were in their pajamas still—apparently a five in the morning urgent call meant “don’t bother getting dressed”.

  
“In her defense, when she taught him he was still Anthony James,” Greg said. 

  
“How did she come to teach him?” John asked. “I thought your mother retired when you two were born.” 

  
“She did,” Sherlock answered. “But she would do classes every once in a while. And that year I was at uni, and Mycroft was off to his first big government jobs. So Mother decided to spend a couple of years teaching courses at UCD. Dad went with her. They had a lovely time.” 

  
At least that’s what all the postcards said, over and over again in slightly different ways, until Sherlock could predict exactly what they would say. 

  
“Here’s the important question,” Mary said. “Does he know his old professor is your mother?” 

  
“That’s why we’re calling in,” Mycroft said. He pressed the button on the computer again. It would make both of his parents’ phones ring at full volume, but there was no answer so far. 

  
Sherlock’s mouth tightened. That wasn’t a good sign. 

  
Or maybe it didn’t matter, because the next time Mycroft pressed the button, they answered. 

  
“Myc, darling, do you have any notion of the time?”   
“You’re supposed to have your phones by your beds,” Mycroft replied. 

  
“And we do, dear. But your father’s snoring must have drowned out the ring. What’s happened? Do we need to move?” 

  
“I don’t know. You’re still getting emails there, yes?” 

  
“Yes, and they’re perfectly secure, your lovely Anthea checks very thoroughly.” Their mother sounded more awake. “Why, what’s wrong?” 

  
“Do you still communicate with any of your old students, Mother?” Sherlock asked. 

  
“Yes, several of them. Mostly Christmas cards, but a few are pen pals—or email pals, I suppose.” 

  
“Is one of them Anthony James?” 

  
“Yes indeed.” Their mother sounded surprised. “How on Earth did you know that?” 

  
“Mother, have you ever seen a picture of James Moriarty?” 

  
There was dead silence on the other end. Mycroft could picture his mother putting the dots together, removing the veil of time and long blond hair and a youthful face, interested only in mathematics…

“No,” she whispered at last. “Oh my God, what—” 

  
“Apparently he’s changed names a few times over the years,” Mycroft said grimly. “What do you and Anthony write about?” 

  
“Nothing to do with either of you, I make sure of that.” 

  
The firmness in his mother’s voice was both surprising and a tad hurtful. But she went on right away. 

  
“I know your jobs are dangerous, and I’m well aware that your father and I are old and can’t exactly defend ourselves the way we used to. The last thing I want to do is become a liability to either of you. Why do you think your father and I use my name for most of our business dealings? No, Anthony and I talk about our gardens, and we talk about mathematics. I left before he achieved his Master’s, my term was up, but we kept in touch because of a larger project he was working on.” 

  
“What sort of project?” 

  
“He never did tell me what it was for. It always looked like game theory and probability mixed together, but he’s never shown me all of it at once. When he does have an update, he sends me that portion of it. I’ve told him a hundred times that I can’t help him properly if I don’t know what the bloody thing is for, but he always told me it was a surprise.” 

  
“When was the last time you heard from him, Mother?” 

  
“About three weeks ago. One moment, let me…yes, three weeks ago exactly. It was later than usual; he’s been steady for the last three years, he told me he was on Sabbatical.” 

  
“I suppose that was more or less true.” 

  
“Anthony just told me that his radishes were doing very well, and that the old formula had worked a treat when he used it, and he wanted to make a new one that was even better. He said he was going to send me the whole old formula as well as the preliminary for the new one the next time he wrote. He promised he was back to his old schedule, so that would be coming up soon, maybe even today. Oh, damn me for a fool!” 

  
“Mum,” Sherlock said, “please don’t do that to yourself. Why on Earth would you have thought it was him?” 

  
“I suppose that wouldn’t have been the most logical leap, would it? Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I have every piece of that formula he’s ever sent me, and my revisions. I’ll forward them to you in the meantime.” His mother sounded like she was in tears. “God, what have I done?” 

  
“We won’t know until we see it, Mum.” Mycroft’s voice was gentler than Sherlock had heard it in ages. “But I can tell you this—he’s done plenty without your help. He murdered another kid when he was ten.” 

  
Their mother sighed. “I suppose I’ll just have to undo what I can. Alright, I’ll send you the whole folder soon. Perhaps you can make some sense out of it before he sends the whole formula.” 

  
“We could try figuring out the missing pieces,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “And then we just might be able to figure out what’s so important about this formula.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, someone needs to teach me how to just set up automatic chapter posting, because apparently the least hint of stress creates a mental block in me about posting. Posting completed work!   
Anyways, I hope that was a bit of a twist :) It took me ages to figure out how that could all work somewhat plausibly, so please don't tell me if things don't make sense, or I may cry.   
Also don't panic, what math there will be is going to be explained in very broad terms; if you've ever seen NUMB3RS it's like that.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	24. Maths Mysteries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janine and Sherlock start working on the formula, and also find a way to work out their own relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry if you don't get the math--I don't entirely. I'm using NUMB3RS rules, and the main thing is just understanding the purpose of the formula.

Sherlock wheeled the final white board into Mycroft’s living room. “That’s the last one I could find.” 

  
“That should be enough, shouldn’t it?” Janine was sorting the white board markers into colour families. “After all, the algorithm really isn’t that long.” 

  
‘Anthony’ had made good on his promise, and the old formula was in. Mum had forwarded it straight away, along with her work through the years. Sherlock could see the building blocks of logic in those earlier notes, some even in shaky handwriting. There were complicated loops, set theory, and several levels of derivatives.

  
That seemed normal enough, but the amount of variables gave him pause. 

  
Every single letter of the alphabet was used across the formula. There was even an aa listed, and Sherlock had no idea where to start. 

  
Janine picked up a blue marker and tapped her lips with it. “What on earth are all those variables? How can you have a functioning formula like this?” 

  
“I don’t know. And perhaps the new formula that he’s working on has less of them.” 

  
“We’ll need to solve this one first, right?” 

  
“If we can,” Sherlock answered. “There must be some clues in the math itself.” 

  
“Then we need to start isolating variables,” Janine said firmly. “With any luck, that will tell us something about what they mean. And what the number 6 means.” 

  
“Six?” 

  
“Yeah. The formula he sent your Mum is set to be equal to 6.” 

  
Sherlock looked at it in surprise. “Well, that should help.”

* * *

Two hours and six empty markers later, Sherlock was ready to break each and every whiteboard. 

  
A few of the variables had been “isolated”, but all they could do was essentially rewrite the formula. The 6 was still there, taunting them, but they were no closer to figuring out what it was supposed to mean. 

  
“Let’s take a break,” Janine suggested. “Come on, let’s get away from the whiteboards.” 

  
Sherlock didn’t stomp out of the room, but it was a near thing. Once they reached the kitchen, Janine flung herself into a chair. “I don’t ever want to see another whiteboard,” she groused.

  
Sherlock had to grin. “Tea?” 

  
“No, coffee. As strong as you can make it.” 

  
Sherlock gestured towards Mycroft’s fancy machine. “Do you want espresso or anything like that?” 

  
Janine joined him, and then a moment later they were sitting with mugs in their hands, milk foam threatening to drip over the sides. The heat eased the strain in Sherlock’s hands. 

  
“What are we going to do?” Janine asked. “I don’t think maths is going to help solve those variables.” 

  
“Certainly not like this,” Sherlock agreed. “My mother looked at it too, and she promised to text the moment she knew anything.” 

  
“Nothing yet?”

“No.” 

  
“Damn.” Janine pressed her lips together. “Maybe…maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way.” 

  
“Oh yes?” 

  
“Well, the math creates a result, right? It’s not an expression, it arrives at a conclusion.” 

  
“Yes.” 

  
“So, if that’s right, then the variables themselves are the building blocks, not the math. Maybe we need to solve the variables before we can understand the math.” 

  
“But how?” Sherlock pressed his lips together. “I don’t see a starting point.” 

  
“Well, it’s game theory, right? He’s measuring some kind of risk. And since he consults on crimes, the variables have something to do with that.” 

  
Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Yes. And if we can sort out the factors of crime, that may lead us to the variables.” 

  
“That’s how I solved some of Magnussen’s encrpytion,” Janine said. Her smile faltered. 

  
Sherlock swallowed. “Janine, I know I apologized—” 

  
“It’s fine, Sherlock.” 

  
“No, it isn’t. It really isn’t. I was an abominable bastard.” 

  
“I did get warning of that.” Janine’s grin was tight. “I understand why you did it—” 

  
“The moment I realized you worked for Magnussen,” Sherlock interrupted. “I realized I had to get closer to you. And I had to do it quickly. Romance seemed the easiest. You were interested, and you were pleasant to be around.” 

  
“So it wasn’t all fake?” 

  
Sherlock shook his head. “No, it—it wasn’t. I don’t think it was romance”—that wasn’t entirely true, he knew it wasn’t— “but I had a pleasant time. I imagine that made it harder for you.” 

  
“It’s not fun to find out that the two people you’re closest to in the entire world have been using you, no.” Janine’s face was hard, but the hurt in her eyes was clear. Clear and simple, just like John’s. _You hurt me, and I don’t know why._

  
“I never should have done it,” Sherlock whispered. “I should have found another way, anything else that didn’t involve you.” 

  
Janine twisted her fingers. “I know why you did it,” she said slowly. “And I understand that you felt it was necessary. But I would have helped you, you know. If you’d asked.” 

  
Sherlock blinked. “Really? But I was a stranger—” 

  
“Who was trying to bring down my sadistic boss,” Janine interrupted him. “I would have said yes right away.” 

  
Sherlock flinched. “I suppose I didn’t…well, I wasn’t sure if I trusted you.” 

  
“So you thought it was best to just use me.” 

  
“Yes.” 

  
“So what if I had said yes to your proposal?” Janine inquired, leaning back in her chair. “Before Mary knocked me out I thought about it, and I was pretty sure I was going to say yes, but we would need to be engaged for a while. I loved you, Sherlock. And I know it was fast, but—but I was ready.”

  
Sherlock sighed. “I have a habit of doing that, it seems. I am—I am so sorry, Janine. I took advantage of that, and I brought you into more danger.” 

  
“Not to worry,” Janine said coolly. “There were no consequences. Magnussen thought I’d been punished enough.” 

  
Sherlock bowed his head. 

  
“Sherlock.” Janine patted his knee. “I forgive you. I wish you’d just told me, we could have avoided all of this. But I suppose I understand. I’m not the best at trusting people either.” She paused. “But it was real? Some of it, at least?” 

  
Sherlock nodded, raising his head just enough to glance at her face. Janine was telling the truth; there was forgiveness in her jaw, but still uncertainty in her smile. “I love you, Janine,” he said firmly. “I wish I could love you the way that I pretended to, but I don’t. I just love you the way I love Molly and Greg and Mrs. Hudson—you’re my friend, and I cherish your presence in my life. I do hope I will earn that back.”

  
Janine made him look at her. “I forgive you, Sherl. You have.”

  
Sherlock smiled at her, relief making his shoulders slump. “Well then, that’s settled. Shall we get back to it?” 

  
Janine groaned. “Yes, I suppose.” She drained her coffee in two large gulps. “Come on, then. Oh, can I ask you something?” 

  
“Of course.” 

  
“I’m just curious—you said that Molly and Greg and Mrs. Hudson are your friends, right?” 

  
“Yes, of course they are,” Sherlock said. He was mildly insulted—and worried. Was there doubt of that?

  
“So what about Mary and John?” 

  
Sherlock stopped in his tracks. “Well—that is—obviously they’re my friends too—” 

  
Janine raised her eyebrows. “Yes, but…” she prompted. 

  
Sherlock wanted to tell her that it was nothing, that Mary and John were simply closer to him, and they were closer to family than anything else. But that wasn’t the truth, and he’d lied to Janine enough. 

  
But was he ready to tell the full truth? 

  
Janine took his hand. “Come on. Mary’s asleep and Mycroft’s out. You and I are going to start brainstorming variables, and then you can tell me all about your not-only-friends.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By now I'm sure a few of you have guessed the third romance in this story, but keep it a secret!   
Also...yeah, from now on it's daily. My world is all straightened out, I have a reminder set on my phone, and I'm getting a postdating system worked out so I can just post everything automatically this weekend. Thank you for all your patience with this story; I hope it's worth it, and know that I've got plenty else finished waiting for this to be done, so let's do it!  
#staytheblazeshome, or if you're like me until last week and you can't #staysafeoutthere  
Cheers,  
Acme


	25. Performance Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary's death is faked. Warnings for this chapter: descriptions of gore and violence, though fake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this involves a brutal fake death for Mary, as well as expressions of grief (faked), so be mindful.

Mary took a deep breath. It was hard in this strange corset, but it was important. She wasn’t sure how long she was going to have to hold her breath.

  
Molly looked sick as she looked at Mary. “Are you sure it has to be quite so ghastly?” 

“Moriarty told me to stab her and rip—well, rip the fetus out,” Irene said. Even she sounded subdued. “So that’s what we have to do.” 

  
“It’ll be alright, Molly,” Mary promised. She didn’t want to look down either. In just a week Irene had crafted the perfect tool to fake a murder, but it was too perfect for comfort. 

  
“Alright.” Irene clapped her hands. “Molly, you need to disappear. Go out front, alright?” 

  
“Wasn’t that the point of being in disguise?” 

  
“That wig isn’t going to fool anyone for long. Although you do look nice as a redhead. Go on, shoo!” 

  
Molly glared at Irene, but she obeyed. 

  
Irene helped Mary first sit, then lie on the ground. “It won’t be long,” she promised. “I’m going to ‘dump’ you, and then I’ll run off. Shouldn’t be more than five minutes for someone to find you.” She took off her scarf, and made it into a secure gag. “Can you still breathe?” 

  
Mary nodded. 

  
“Good. Obviously this isn’t the primary crime scene, but we need to cover our bases. This would have hurt.” Irene’s expression faltered. “See you soon,Mary.” 

  
Mary nodded firmly. Irene bent down, dragged a knife across the corset to make the fake blood start to drip, and then darted away. 

  
Mary lay in the alley, controlling her breath carefully. A member of the Homeless Network was going to “stumble on” her any moment, but there was a chance that another person could come down this alley. Unlikely—it was between two buildings but barely wide enough for her to turn sideways,and the path was singularly useless—from one dead-end street to the other. 

  
In other words, it was an excellent place to dump a body. 

  
The corset with its awful attachment was starting to dig into Mary’s perfectly healthy stomach, and she winced. That was okay—she would obviously have died in a good deal of pain, though her daughter would be removed postmortem. 

  
For the first time, Mary allowed herself to consider the possibility that could have happened if—well, if Moriarty had sent anyone else. Would they have killed her in Mycroft’s home? Probably, it would be symbolic; shocking their side to the core, that no one was safe. Certainly not an unborn child. Mary shuddered. Her daughter would never have been born if that had happened. She would have fought, of course—hell, she might even have won. But if she hadn’t…would the assassin have changed their mind and simply taken the fetus and leave her behind? Would Mary survive that—would she want to? 

  
But that wasn’t going to happen, and right now she needed to wait and keep her breath steady.

  
It felt like an eternity before she finally heard shuffling steps—Wiggins, no doubt. Mary kept her eyes opened, but she was only looking straight up as it was. So she didn’t see Wiggins’ horrified face until he was bent over her. “Mary?” he gasped hoarsely. “Oh god, no!” 

  
He stumbled back out of her view, and Mary listened as he dialled and started to cry. “Detective Inspector, she’s dead…” 

  
When the call was finished Mary was relieved by him crouching over her again and making to close her eyes, allowing her to stop looking.

  
She didn’t see anything of what happened next. Sally Donovan and Anderson showed up, made proper horrified exclamations, and then loaded her body into a body bag. There was a moment of claustrophobia, but it was necessary—they were the only two at the crime scene besides Wiggins who knew that she was truly alive. It was best to get her out of sight before more people came. 

  
She was loaded into a lorry next, and Sally Donovan sat beside her. Anderson must be driving. 

  
“God, this is going to murder John,” Sally muttered. She patted the bag close to Mary’s hand. “I know you’re alright, so will he, but…god, this looks bad.” There was a pause. “Good, it’s hit the news. I’m sure there’ll be a crew of the sharks circling when he gets there.” 

  
It would be the first time John’s acting would be tested so thoroughly, but it had to be done. He would still be walking around outside for the next…however long, and people would see (have to see) a grieving widower, a bereaved father-to-be. And that started at the morgue. 

  
Mary braced herself for the influx of light as they wheeled her in. She still nearly blinked, eyes still closed, as Molly unzipped the bag. 

  
“Thank you, Sergeant Donovan,” Molly said with professional coolness in her voice. “I—” her voice broke. “I can take it from here. Someone’s got to tell her husband. He has to come and do an identification…” 

  
“Surely you can do it? You know—knew, Mrs. Watson.”

  
“I can’t be the identifier.” 

  
“Then John will be here soon,” Sally said quietly. “That’s why the DI didn’t come himself. When the call came in he went straight to Baker’s Street. He’s in a car with John and the—and Sherlock now.” 

  
Mary did everything she could not to flinch, even as her daughter kicked her determinedly. 

  
“Damn it,” Sally cursed. “I saw that. I think we need to tighten the corset.” 

  
“It’s not safe medically.” There was a rustle, and Mary felt a sheet being draped over her. “There, that should do it.” 

  
For a few more moments no one spoke. Mary tried counting, tried remembering the names of the least populated settlements in every country, but nothing distracted her. All she could think was that she was about to witness John’s grief. 

  
Mary had plenty of faith in her husband. She’d watched him at Sherlock’s grave for over a year, weeping sometimes, talking other times, sometimes just standing in silence. Sherlock had told her quietly that he had seen John at his grave a few of those times, and it was the hardest part of his exile, witnessing John’s pain. That was real, of course, but John could replicate that, of course he could. 

  
The vehemence of it still startled her. 

  
She heard the door fling open, heard her husband’s quick steps towards the table—and then she heard a horrible cry. 

  
But that wasn’t John, that was Sherlock.

  
John spoke then, and the calm voice was worse. “Is she—is she really—” 

  
“Yes.” Molly’s voice was thick with tears. “I’m sorry, John. There was nothing they could do—” 

  
“And—and our baby—” 

  
Molly must have shook her head. There was silence another second, and then a broken moan sounded. “Oh god, I vowed I’d keep them safe—” 

  
Mary steeled herself. She couldn’t cry, not even as John came closer and she heard him shaking with the effort to keep from sobbing. His hand laid itself on her arm. “Show me.” 

  
“John, no.” Molly put her hands on the sheet firmly. “John, you can’t see that. Not—no one should.” 

  
“I have to.” 

  
“No, John.” Sherlock was close now too. “No, John, Mary wouldn’t want you to see it.” 

  
Sherlock had seen the corset.

  
“Well, she’s dead now, isn’t she?” Molly let out a cry and Mary felt the sheet leaving her.

  
Now John screamed. “Oh god, oh god, Mary! Rachel!” 

  
Well, that was one way for her husband to let her know that he’d made up his mind on the name. Focus on that, focus on baby Rachel, you have to be strong for her. 

  
“John, she didn’t suffer much,” Sally Donovan said quietly. “We’ve already found drugs in her system. She was likely comatose before—before the baby—” 

  
Obviously this sort of information wouldn’t be found for a while, but that was the story they would tell the media. Soon, once she was out of the morgue. 

  
“I’m going to take you home, John,” Sherlock said tenderly. “Come on. We will find out who hurt them. We’ll bring them to justice, I promise. We need to come away now.” 

  
The press must have arrived. 

  
John bent over her and kissed her forehead hard. “I will find them, Mary love,” he promised. “Take care of our baby, darling. At least—at least you’re together.” Tears fell on her forehead. 

  
Mary stayed still until the door closed again. Then she twitched. 

  
“Right. Time to move, come on.” 

  
Mary opened her eyes and Molly helped her off the table. Sally Donovan was moving too, dragging an excellent replica of the image John had just seen onto the table. 

  
Mary followed Molly down the hall and into a closet. Irene was waiting there. Without a word she spun Mary around, cut off the corset, and then cut into her clothes. “Don’t start,” she said sternly. “We’ve got to get you changed.” 

  
Mary breathed more easily. Yes, she needed to change, put on a wig and blend into the crowd in back (courtesy of the Homeless Network). Then she would change cabs three times, and eventually make her way to the Diogenes Club. John and Sherlock would be there, and she could reunite with them before she went into deeper hiding at one of Mycroft’s satellite properties. 

  
It would be easier now, the hard part was over.

  
But for the first time, Mary realized that she feared death. She never had before, but now the coldness of that table and the sound of John and Sherlock’s grief was still in her ears, and it would stay with her. 

  
And for that, Moriarty was going to pay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next few chapters are going to be much more cheerful!   
Cheers,  
Acme


	26. Finding the Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to find the words to a lie, and in doing so reveals a truth to Greg.

I don’t truly know what to write today. I didn’t last time either, but this time—this time is harder. How do you honour someone who never lived? How do I claim to be a bereaved father when my child was still a fetus? How can I write loving mother on Mary’s grave? I’ve always been firmly on the side of choice—

Greg winced.

John threw up his hands. “I knew that part was stupid. Why the hell am I bringing in the abortion debate?”

Sherlock and Janine had demanded all of the data from the crimes that Moriarty was involved in, but they also had a list of things that needed to be highlighted in spreadsheets. They were close to the right amount of variables, but until they knew for sure they had to just keep it all loose. John had come to the station to help the others, because this was a tremendously slow and irritating job. Mycroft had a small army working on half the pile, but ten hours into the effort and Greg was ready to shoot papers on principle.

So he’d stopped, ordered Stan, Sally, and Philip off to get food, and right now was helping John to write Mary and the baby’s farewell blog post.

John was having trouble.

“I hate this.” John leant forward, his head in weary hands. “I have to be part of the deception, I know that. I know I came close to losing them; I remember what grief feels like, for fuck’s sake! But I don’t know how to write this. I’m writing for Moriarty, we all know that. It has to be sincere.”

“Your blog post for Sherlock was good.”

He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him.

“I spent five hours on that.” John shook his head. “Five hours, trying to sum up what I was feeling, and that’s all I could say.”

“Maybe that’s because it’s all that mattered at the time,” Greg said gently. “So what matters now? What would matter now, I mean,” he added hastily.

John looked up, letting his hands fall back to the table. After a couple seconds of thought, he erased the block of text for the seventh time, and painstakingly typed out three sentences.

My wife and daughter are gone. I am not. I will fight for them forever.

Greg nodded. “That’s…that’s good, mate.”

“I had to turn my phone off,” John mumbled. “Last night. There were so many people calling, and I didn’t—I just couldn’t deal with them all.”

“What are you telling people about the funeral?”

“That there won’t be one until Moriarty is caught and punished. That’s not a lie. And it shuts people up.”

Greg nodded. He was about to shift the conversation—they needed to relax, talk about something else to give their minds a break—and then John said something strange.

“It was hard for the same reason.”

Greg stared at him.

John looked back, and Greg had never seen him look so afraid. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “I don’t understand why my wife and my friend feel like the same loss.”

“You love them both,” Greg replied. “They’re the loves of your life.”

“I thought…after he died, I thought I would never be happy again. Then Mary was there, and then they were both there, and then Mary was gone. Or I thought she might be.”

Greg didn’t speak, letting the silence stretch out.

“But we made up, and now I have both of them. I’m going to be a father, for Christ’s sake. And I know we can beat Moriarty this time, I  know  we can. And maybe we can do it without anybody dying, so that’ll be fine, but once this is over…the life I see..I don’t know. I don’t understand why it feels wrong.”

Oh dear. This was dangerous ground indeed.

“Maybe there’s just too much uncertainty,” Greg suggested. “After all, this is your first kid. You don’t really know what life will be like when she’s born.”

“Did you ever have kids?” John asked.

“No. I wanted them but…well, Dolores didn’t. And that was okay; I don’t know if I would’ve been much of a father. Being a decent husband was a lot of effort. I don’t know if I could’ve been responsible for a child too.”

“Your ex-wife is a despicable drainpipe of a human being,” John said firmly. “It was just being married to her that was so difficult. You would’ve been fine otherwise.”

Greg sighed. “Maybe. But John…I think you’ll be a great dad. You’ve got love and patience and acceptance in spades.”

“I hope so. And maybe that is it. Maybe I just don’t understand how we’ll live with a baby. She…well, she wasn’t planned, so we didn’t really think about it.”

“That’s why you’re supposed to wear protection.”

“We both did!” John blushed. “I just…I suppose it happened anyways. Not that I’m upset, it just seems like there’s more to think about every day. Things we need, things we’ll have to do, different patterns for the rest of our lives…”

Greg patted his hand. “You’ll figure it out, mate. But it’s not just your baby, is it?”

John swallowed. “Maybe…maybe not. But I don’t know how to even think about it. Much less feel.”

“I know.” Greg put a hand to his face. “The way I see it, John, is that you have to let it come as it may. And I know that’s awful; trust me, I don’t want it at all for myself or for you. But trying to sort everything out at once is too hard. Let the problems exist; say that you know them, and you’re not forgetting them. Then focus on something you can think about. Does that make sense?”

John flipped open another file. “It does,” he said eventually. “I just don’t know if I can think about anything.”

“Well then.” Greg raised a hand as the rest of the team came into the room. “Time to do things, then. Let’s eat, and then get back to all this sodding typing. That’s all we can do for now.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three days in a row, I've got this!   
Cheers,  
Acme


	27. Molly's Having Kittens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the title has two meanings because the author thinks she's very clever, and read too much British fiction as a child so the expressions are ingrained in her brain whether they're current or not.

Molly shook Richard White’s hand, smiled at him, and then closed the door behind her. 

“Is that the last stop Miss?” the driver asked as she flopped into the car.

“Yes, thank goodness. Can you drive me to Janine’s, please?” 

“Of course.” Anton passed her a travel mug with peppermint-scented steam billowing from it. 

“Cheers.” Molly held the mug in her cold hands as the car started to move. 

With Janine working on the algorithm with Sherlock, Molly wanted to make herself useful. Janine was reluctant at first, but eventually she agreed that Molly could indeed go to the blackmail victims to let them know that it was over and the money would be coming back. 

Well, some of them. Janine (and Greg and Mycroft, who got involved when Janine started shouting) refused to allow her to confront criminals of any kind. “We’ll deal with them,” Greg said sternly. “You know, the police, who are supposed to deal with criminals. The information’s enough to get them arrested. Let the police deal with that.” 

So Molly dealt with the unfaithful and the secret children and the criminal pasts that only had to do with juvenile records. She’d gone through a page of names that were in the UK in person, and was writing emails in between calls to those abroad. 

It was harder than Molly had ever imagined. It was one thing to read on paper that a woman was married to a man and they had three children, but she had a male lover in Dover and a female lover in East London. It was another thing entirely to stand in that woman’s kitchen as her children played with their stay-at-home dad in the front room. The woman just seemed relieved, and took the cheque without any questions. All she said to Molly was that she was grateful because it was “so inconvenient” before. 

They weren’t all like that; Molly could tell that some of them were good people who’d made a mistake one time, who’d done everything they could to turn their lives around and be faithful, be good citizens. But there were three Mrs. Whites for every one person like that, and it bothered Molly more than she wanted to admit. She wasn’t naive, not anymore. Victims could be perpetrators, perpetrators victims. What Magnussen had done to these people was wrong, and it was time to right that wrongs. It just felt bad doing it. 

Janine still wasn’t home when Molly came in, and there was no telling when she would be. She’d actually spent the last two nights at Mycroft’s as she and Sherlock worked on the algorithm. Toby was there at least, and he twined around Molly’s legs as she put her things down on the table. 

Molly picked him up. “I think it’s just the two of us tonight,” she said. “Again. But I’m going to make some food for two humans, alright? Don’t fret, I’ll feed you first.” 

After she scooped out Toby’s food and left him munching contentedly in the corner, Molly went looking through the fridge. As she’d hoped, the groceries had been delivered, and all of the ingredients for cottage pie were present. Janine said it was one of her favourites, and it kept well. Maybe she’d make a double batch; she’d be leaving eventually, and Janine didn’t know how to make it right. 

Leaving. 

Molly pushed aside apple juice and her feelings about that word as she reached for the minced beef. She was going to leave, of course she would. They would stop Moriarty and she and Toby would pack up their things and go back to her small, shabby apartment without fluffy pillows and piles of notes and books all half-heartedly organized. She’d cook for one, go out and buy food for Toby by herself, and the nightmare would be over. 

Why did that sound so terrible? 

A knock came at the door. Molly tensed up, closing the refrigerator door as she picked up her phone. Jerry the driver was typing as she picked it up. His message flashed up.  Neighbour. Vetted. 

Molly relaxed, just a little. She approached the door cautiously. She’d never met one of Janine’s neighbours, and her old shyness was already bubbling up before the door opened. 

The man outside was thin almost to the point of concern, with eyes too big for his face and a warm smile. In his arms he held a beautiful Maine coon cat who looked a little on the plump side. 

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Percy Whittaker, I live upstairs. You’re staying with Janine?” 

“Yes.” Molly took a deep breath. “Can I help you?” 

“I think you might be able to. You see, I’ve never had Mara here spayed; I was thinking of breeding her, or at least her having some kittens. The problem is that she likes to climb out of the window, and—well, the long and short of it is that she’s in the family way. I’ve talked to the other neighbours, but all their cats are neutered. I was wondering—” 

Molly caught her breath. “No, Toby isn’t neutered. I always thought about him having kittens someday too.” And there was one open window, just wide enough for Toby to get through. 

“Ah, so he’s the daddy then.” Percy smiled. “That’s fine, I just thought the owner should know. Would you like one of the kittens?” 

Molly didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. Although I don’t want to separate them too young. Maybe I could just come and visit?” 

“You can do that too. I’ve already got three cats, you see, and I don’t know how many more I’ll actually be allowed to keep. But it’s just a trip upstairs anyways, right?” 

“Yeah—oh. No, I’m not going to be staying with Janine forever. I don’t think.” Molly bit her lip. “I’m having some troubles at my flat, that’s all. Janine’s a good friend.” 

The man flushed crimson. “No, my apologies, I didn’t—goodness, I don’t want to start anything.” 

Whether that was his intention or not, though,Percy’s words opened a box that Molly had carefully, lovingly, put away in a dark corner of her mind palace (well, more of a mind cottage, but of course it would be). It wasn’t one she wanted to look directly at, but if an outsider, a stranger…he’d noticed. And with all of the geniuses she knew, there was no telling when someone else would notice too. 

“Your gaydar wasn’t off,” Molly said carefully. She really wasn’t sure where to start. “I’m not gay, but I am bi. Sort of bi, at least. I’ve never had sex with a woman, but I’ve wanted to.” 

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, lovey. I know how that works. But you…you and Janine?” 

“I suppose—well, when we met I was engaged,” Molly said quietly. “To a man. And I thought she was lovely, but I didn’t know what to do about that. It wasn’t the first time. But now my engagement’s over, and she’s still so lovely, but there’s all this trouble with our family, so—and anyways, she’s never said anything about something like that. I think she’s just interested in men.” 

“Ah. That’s never fun.” Percy shifted, looking awkward. “Look, it’s none of my business, and I really just wanted to tell you about the future kittens, but I think…you’re good for her. She seems happier, even happier than when Magnussen died.” 

Molly looked up at him sharply. “What did you say your last name was again?” 

“Whittaker.” 

Molly’s mind raced through the lists, trying to find a familiar one. 

“I was Harriet Whittaker once,” Percy interrupted her thoughts. “And I was young when Magnussen found out my secret. I was still dependent on my parents; I was afraid. Janine handled my case, and she actually fucked it up on purpose. She told my parents, and they were okay with it after all. Magnussen wasn’t happy with her, but she saved my life. I got the hormones, and I got this flat. Magnussen wanted to compensate me for the money I spent to keep my secret safe.” 

Molly tried to hide her shudder. Janine would have paid dearly for that, but it sounded just like her. 

“So yeah. You’re good for her, Molly. I hope you stay around, even if you just come to visit once your flat gets sorted out. Janine’s a great girl, and I want to make sure that she’s happy.” 

Footsteps on the stairs made them both turn around, and a woman came up the stairs with shopping in her hand. “Percy, love, could you take one of these?” She kissed Mara’s head, and then looked at Molly. “Oh, sorry! Didn’t see you there!” 

“This is Molly. Molly, this is Annie, my fiancee. Annie, Molly’s cat Toby is the father.” 

“Hurrah, we don’t have to go on the cat version of Maury!” Annie giggled. 

“There’s no such show,” Percy teased. 

“Of course not, but there bloody should be. I’d rather watch that.” Annie handed one of the bags to Percy, exchanging it for Mara. “Well, nice to meet you, future cat-mum-in-law. Perce, we need to get ready for the party.” Annie headed for the stairs, cat in tow. 

“Sorry, she can be a bit abrupt.” 

“Not to worry,” Molly said with a shy smile. “You should go get ready for the party, then. I’ve got to get food going in case Janine does come back at a reasonable hour.” 

“Right.” Percy shook hands with her. “Very nice to meet you, and we’ll chat soon about the cats, alright?” 

“Ta. Have a lovely evening.” 

“You as well.” Percy started to climb the stairs, but he paused partway up. “I think you should keep an open mind,” he said hesitantly. “Not that it’s any of my business, of course. But sometimes assumptions fuck up a perfectly good time between two people.” 

“I’ll do my best,” Molly said. She waved and went back inside, closing the door quietly but firmly. 

Then she slid down until she was sitting, knees hugged to her chest and back solid against the door. 

You see, Molly already knew the dangers of keeping an open mind. It was easy to do that before you’d been hurt, before you understood the depth of unrequited love and the pain of false hope. But after…not only was it hard, but it was hard on you as a person. And if you weren’t careful, it could ruin the future. You could be too obvious, let people see what you wanted, and what if you were wrong? There was nothing to gain from it, not when it came to affairs of the heart. 

Because that was the long and short of it, wasn’t it? Molly picked herself up, making sure to lock the door. It wasn’t just that Janine was beautiful, it was that she made good food and did her best to be a good person and always had. Brilliant, funny, and had such a wonderful touch with her home…in other words, everything Molly could want. It wasn’t even that she knew that Janine was interested in men; hell, she was interested in men too (bisexuality was great in a lot of ways, but  gosh was it difficult to tell your chances). 

No, the problem lay squarely with what Molly was. And Molly, try though she might, was ordinary. She joked with Greg sometimes that they were the only sane ones of the bunch (even John seemed to be caught up in the madness), but it wasn’t always funny. Sometimes Molly wanted to be special too; maybe not clever or brave or shrewd, just…special. In some way. But she wasn’t, and that’s why Janine would never be interested. Janine was special, wonderfully so. She deserved someone special, and hoping that anything else was true would only be another twist of the knife, another broken stitch in her barely-mended heart.

Molly looked around the flat, that despite her best efforts was starting to feel like home, and sighed. She just had to be more careful, that was all. If she did that, she could avoid any awkward questions, avoid having her heart broken (and breaking poor Janine’s) and come back to see Toby’s kittens. Surely she was allowed to hope for that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you guys think? Is Molly right???  
Cheers,  
Acme


	28. Take A Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baker Street Irregulars have a reunion to strategize, but Mycroft has another plan. Also, forgiveness is given.

It was a special day, because for the first time in forty days, all of the Baker Street Irregulars were in the same room. Well, they would be once Mycroft and Sherlock finally showed up.

The apartment Mary was hiding in was in the basement, so the room was dim even in the early afternoon. Apparently there were bins in front of all the windows, and the only light in the room came from a small lamp.

“Could we turn on some lights?” Molly asked. Janine agreed—she trusted everyone there except Irene Adler, but that was a big “except”. Besides that, there were too damn many people who were too damn good at hiding their expressions.

Mary sighed. “I wish we could, but the ceiling light flashes like there’s a crowd of demons in here. I can go get the lamp from the bedroom, but I’m not sure if it’ll make much difference.”

“You’re going to go blind in here,” John snapped. “Where the hell is the British Government?”

“He and Sherlock are on their way.” Greg was staring at his phone. “They had to swing by to pick up some intel from Wiggins.”

“Anything interesting?”

“No. More dead ends.”

Janine sighed. It was starting to get to her; between the algorithm’s ridiculous multitude of variables, the Homeless Network’s tightening net with no sightings, and the lack of progress actually finding a way to trap Moriarty, there just didn’t seem to be a way out. They had to make progress at some point, right?

“I know,” Greg said sympathetically. “I’m ready to start shooting everyone who looks like they  might be involved with Moriarty.” He frowned at Irene. “Hang on, you know where he is!”

“I knew where he was three weeks ago, yes. I have no idea where he is now. He moved on, he must have. Mrs. Hudson’s people have already cleared that neighbourhood. And his toyboy wasn’t exactly hiding there.”

“Toyboy?” Janine said sharply. “You didn’t mention—”

“It’s not relevant,” Irene interrupted her. “It’s just Seb Moran.”

Mary sat bolt upright. “Sorry, Seb  Moran? ”

“Yeah, that assassin fellow we met that time. He’s not dangerous, you know that. Not until Jim gives the order.”

“But what if Jim is going to give the order?” Janine asked slowly. “After all, we don’t have any real grasp of his stupid, damn plan except to pick us off one by one. But there has to be more, right?”

“He can’t be that obsessed,” Mary agreed.

Janine looked at her. “Oh, he might be, but yeah, there’s more. He’s had three years to plan about this, even if it’s only in the back of his mind. His subconscious ‘being a fucking bastard mastermind criminal’ would be working even if he’s off planting sheep or whatever.”

Mary laughed.

“Isn’t that—” Greg started.

“It’s an old joke,” Janine explained. “We got very drunk one night—before Mare met you, John. And we were talking about jobs that would be way less stressful than ours, and it took a solid twenty minutes for Mary to explain that she thought being someone who planted sheep would be great.”

John laughed. “I’m assuming she meant a shepherd?”

“Exactly.” Janine grinned. “No one in the pub gave her the answer though, they just let her slowly puzzle it out. When she shouted SHEPHERD the whole pub exploded into cheers. They would have bought us more drinks, but we convinced them to just pay for our cab home instead. Well, my flat, because Mary had also forgotten where she lived.”

“I moved there a week and a half before,” Mary protested. “I just forgot the address.”

“You gave your address as Buckingham Palace, your Majesty,” Janine teased. Then she stopped smiling. For a second there, she’d forgotten what the last few months had taught her. By the look on Mary’s face, she had too.

Thankfully, the brothers Holmes made an entrance, and immediately John started a tirade about the light situation.

“I know that my wife’s supposed to be dead, but she does need to see!”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and clapped his hands. The entire room brightened instantly, and Janine shielded her eyes.

“Oh,” Mary said in a quiet voice.

“No, it’s alright, Mary. I suppose I forgot to tell you.” Mycroft sat down next to Greg and greeted him with a quick kiss. Sherlock lounged on the floor.

“Will you sit on a chair like an adult, you prat?” John asked fondly.

“No. I’m too frustrated.”

“Fair enough.” Molly rolled her eyes. “Anyone else ready to start pulling their hair out?”

Janine immediately slid closer to her and put her fingers into Molly’s hair. “You’re not allowed to do that, your hair is lovely.”

Molly giggled. “Not literally, Jan.”

“I do agree with Molly, though,” Greg said. “We’ve had so little progress in the last few days, and we’ve been working so hard. I’m not sure that there was much point in meeting together, you know? Not much to report from any end.”

“I know,” Mycroft said calmly.

“You do?” Greg looked surprised. “Then why are we all here, we could be working.”

“Well that’s exactly the point,” Mycroft replied. “You would be working, and you all look exhausted. We all need a night off, and so that’s what we’re going to do. No more talking about the mission. Food will arrive soon, as well as drinks—I strongly suggest no one becomes too sloshed, but alcohol will be available. I’ve also collected some “silly party games”, which are popular at the Nights Off I organize at my office.”

Janine blinked. “You…you socialize? I thought you hated it.”

“Oh no, that was for others, not me. Whilst my employees did that I tended to watch shows and have a good dinner on my own. I’ll leave shortly if you don’t—”

Greg grabbed Mycroft and kissed him hard. “Don’t you dare leave, love. You’re staying right here.”

“Of course, Mycroft,” Janine added. She could feel her body relaxing into Molly’s, and shifted just a bit. “I think that’s a great idea. We’ve been trying to take breaks, but it just keeps turning into work.”

“And that’s dangerous for work like ours,” Mycroft replied. His phone beeped, and he stood up. “If we don’t take a moment to breathe, we will collapse before the end. That’s no way to win.”

That was truer than Janine realized, as some of the drivers who’d been cheerfully chauffering them around for the last few weeks came down with several covered dishes. When the lids were off Molly cried out in delight.

“Oh, cake!”

It was a wonderful evening, Janine reflected. They ate until they couldn’t eat anymore, and then Greg put on one of Gordon Ramsay’s shows and they kept picking at the food through five episodes of the American version, and then two of the British version after John begged for mercy. Several bottles of juice, three kettles of tea, and a few shots of alcohol (Mycroft hid the bottle after everyone had two shots except Mary) were consumed, and the cake, a true marvel of baked goods, was decimated.

After the shows a still tipsy Molly insisted they have a dance, and Janine goodnaturedly joined her. Her steps had gotten significantly better with regular practice, and Sherlock even guided her through a more complicated pattern of steps and she only tripped once. Even Irene seemed to relax, fitting into their group with an ease Janine admired, even dancing goofily with Greg before Mycroft took him into a waltz.

Eventually they all ended up lounging on the couches and chairs again, talking in quiet mutters, no one wanting to admit what everyone knew.

Mary did eventually say it. “Listen, this has been wonderful, but we all need to sleep. And I don’t think there’s enough room for the lot of you to stay overnight.”

Mycroft sat up from his position against Greg’s shoulder with a grimace. “Yes, of course. I’ll get in touch with the chauffeurs.”

Janine started to clean up, ignoring Mary’s attempt to shoo her away. “Don’t be stupid, Mare, I’m not leaving you to sort this all out at o christ hundred hours.”

That was almost the way they used to speak to each other, and Janine bit her tongue. She kept her head down as the others straightened up and got ready to leave.

“We’ll have to leave in groups,” Mycroft said quietly. “I’ll leave with Gregory and Miss Adler, then Janine and Molly, then Sherlock and John. Unless you want to stay over, John?”

John looked longingly at Mary, who returned the same look. But then he shook his head. “As much as I want to, I don’t think that’s smart. I may not leave otherwise.”

Mary nodded.

The signal came for Mycroft, Greg and Irene to leave, and Janine moved to stand by the stairs as they waved goodbye, ready to leave the minute her phone chimed. 

“Janine?”

Mary Watson was looking at her with desperate eyes. “Can I have a word?”

Janine glanced at Molly.

“I’ll go wait upstairs,” Molly said. She touched Janine’s arm as she left. John and Sherlock left the room with much less grace, both sneaking into the bedroom.

So Janine was left alone with Mary, and suddenly she didn’t know what to say. There’d been anger and hurt at first, so fierce it burned. And then there was just confusion and maybe just a bit of denial, hoping that things might end up being the same, that their friendship could survive.

Now Janine looked at Mary, and there was nothing. It almost felt like she was standing with a stranger, or perhaps a teacher from primary school. A relationship that no longer existed still hung in the air.

Well, perhaps there was something she could say.

“I don’t want your damn apology.”

“I wasn’t going to give you one.”

Mary was bloody lucky she was pregnant.

“So why do you want to talk to me?”

“I wanted to let you know that our friendship was real. At least it was on my side.”

“I can tell, really. You watched me come down from Magnussen’s offices. You sought me out, and it was for the same reason Sherlock did four years later. Four  years , Mary.” Janine flexed her fingers. “I am surprised you didn’t move faster.”

“I did,” Mary said. “I spoke with him two weeks after I met you. You told me he lets you go for lunch early on Wednesdays.”

Janine blinked. “Sorry…what?”

“I spoke to him four years ago. It wasn’t in an “official” capacity exactly, but I’d heard of him. I wanted to buy his silence.”

“Did you?”

“Oh yes. In exchange for one last job.”

“And what was that?”

“I needed to keep you safe.”

“ What?!”

“There was a hitman after Magnussen, a bloke named Stapleton. He had some pretty vile tastes when it came to women, and he’d threatened you. Apparently you had rules with Magnussen—you didn’t want bodyguards in the street?”

“Exactly. I never wanted that.” She needed some time to think she wasn’t being watched, to escape and be part of the crowd.

“Well, then you needed someone with you until the danger passed. I knew you liked to walk in the park, so I convinced you to let me come with you.”

Janine remembered now, the thrill of actually having a walking partner who just wanted to walk, and not be competitive. Someone who let the conversation ebb and flow, someone who could walk aimlessly for hours, even in the rain.

“Two weeks later, I got word from Magnussen that Stapleton was taken care of. I didn’t ask how. He actually helped me fake a past.” Mary met Janine’s eyes for the first time. “I know he was cruel to you, Janine, but I think whatever love he was capable of…he gave that to you.”

“I never wanted it,” Janine whispered. She knew Mary was telling the truth, because she’d seen it a hundred, maybe a thousand times. It was a cruel, possessive love that comforted her when she missed her parents but made her stay late when they came to visit, that kept her safe from other psychopaths with his own psychopathy. But it was love, the only love she had in her life after her parents died.

And then there’d been Mary.

“So after those two weeks,” Janine said, and now she was afraid to ask, afraid to burst that hope. “After that, what else did he ask you to do?”

“Nothing for almost four years,” Mary answered. “And you may not believe me, but it’s the truth. I wasn’t useful to him; I was just another secret. Maybe he saw that you were happy, I don’t know. But the first time he even contacted me was at the wedding.”

“He wasn’t there,” Janine said, confused. “He was in another country.”

“Yes, but he did send a message.”

“Oh. One of the telegrams?”

“Yes. Once I was married to John, he wanted more from me. He thought one job on the side every two months was reasonable. And then Sherlock started investigating, and he upped it to once a month.” Mary’s lip curled. “He actually offered to make ‘accomodations’ for my pregnancy. That was too much; John would notice, something would happen. Magnussen underestimated my husband.”

“He underestimated you too,” Janine said. “You went after him.”

“I was going to kill him,” Mary answered. “Sorry about the hit to the head, by the way.”

“I didn’t even get a concussion, so that’s something.”

“I would have killed him that night if John and Sherlock weren’t there. Killed him and all this could have been spared.”

Janine bowed her head. “Our friendship started because you wanted to use me.”

“Yes.”

“And then you started spending more time with me because he wanted to protect me, and that protected you from blackmail?”

“Yes.”

“So why stay, after that? Was it convenient?”

“God, no,” Mary answered. “Actually it was worse, because it kept me in Magnussen’s area. I would have been far better off walking away.”

“So why, then?”

“Because I like you, Janine.”

Janine looked up.

“You’re brilliant, you have an excellent sense of humour, and you roll with the punches better than anyone I’ve ever seen. It was nice, being normal with you. Until I met John, you were all I really had.”

“What about Stella and Ted? And Michelle? And Tony?”

“Are they your real friends?” Mary asked, raising her eyebrows. “Because I think they’re lovely people, but I would never tell them anything personal. For fuck’s sake, Ted still has no idea that I don’t enjoy watching films.”

“That was probably the fifth thing you ever told me,” Janine said, surprised.

“And he doesn’t know.” Mary sighed. “I’m not pretending to be a kind woman, Janine. All of the reasons people call Sherlock and Mycroft sociopaths…well, you could say them about me too. But I have always respected and trusted you, and I—I miss you. I want you to be in my life again, not just as John’s wife, but being your friend. I know that’s a lot to ask for. And I know most people wouldn’t, but Janine…it was real. I was really trying to be your friend.”

Janine tried for a second to find her anger, find her hurt. But all there was in her heart was a breath of relief, that Mary had only used her once in four years of friendship. That wasn’t a bad record.

“You can never use me like that again,” Janine whispered. “You can’t—I can’t bear it, Mary. All I’ve ever been is used.”

“I know. I really—I never would have again.” Mary actually looked stricken. “And I won’t now. I should have trusted you. And I didn’t. I really hope I can earn your trust back someday.”

“You can start today,” Janine answered.

Mary’s eyes filled with tears, real ones, and she hesitantly reached out to Janine.

A second later they were in each other’s arms. Janine marvelled at how Mary’s hugs still felt the same, even with her seven-months-pregnant belly.

“You deserve better than me for a friend,” Mary whispered in her ear.

“I think you’re wrong,” Janine answered. “Prove it for me, why don’t you?”

Then her phone went off.

“I have to go, Mare. I really do. But maybe we could have a longer chat tomorrow through text?”

“Sounds grand. Just don’t wake me up before 9 at least. Little one’s going to have trouble sleeping as is, and when she’s not sleeping, neither am I.”

“Is that like practice?”

“I suppose so. How considerate.”

Janine knelt so she was level with Mary’s belly. “Now listen, young one. I’m your Auntie Janine, and I’m asking you very nicely to leave Mummy alone so she can sleep tonight, alright? You’ll have loads of time to explore and be awake. Time to take a rest.” She put her hand on Mary’s belly, hoping that would be affirmative.

She got a firm kick to her palm in response.

“She’s been doing that for everyone,” Mary sighed. “Even for John. Sherlock’s the only one she doesn’t kick for, so I reckon when she’s born we’ll just chuck her at him until she can walk.”

Janine’s phone chimed again.

“Right. Well, baby, try and behave, okay? Bye, Mare. Bye John and Sher,” she called as she went upstairs.

When she got to the car, she slid in next to Molly. The clock showed that it was, in fact, nearly three in the morning.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” Janine murmured to Molly.

“Which bit?” Molly replied.

Janine struggled to keep her head up, but it lolled onto her shoulder. Molly patted her head.

“Both, I s’pose.” Oh, it was hard to keep her eyes open, and Molly’s hand in her hair felt so nice. “Didn’t think Mare would be m’friend again. Didn’t think we’d have fun either.” 

“I know. Who knew Mycroft Holmes could throw such a good party?” Molly started to run her fingers through Janine’s hair, and Janine had to stop herself from purring. That, however, appeared to sap the rest of her strength, because her eyelids grew so heavy she knew opening them again was going to be impossible.

But before she drifted off, she did hear Molly whisper something.

“I’m proud of you.”

* * *

Mary laid down on the couch, weary form the night of merry-making but so grateful. Janine was her friend again, something she hadn’t dared to let herself hope. It felt like asking for too much; after all, John was back in her life. So was Sherlock. For all her sins, she was in a happy place right now. If a very tired one.

Sherlock came out of the bedroom and looked at her. “Mary, you need to be in bed.”

“Yeah, well you two were hiding in there. What did you hear?”

“Just enough to know that I might need to dodge your daughter a tad when she’s young.”

Mary rolled her eyes. Sherlock held out a hand, and she took it, slowly getting to her feet. “Exaggeration, Sherlock. Although we might engage you as a babysitter once in a while.” She blew a kiss to John, who headed upstairs with a nod to Sherlock.

“I’d be honoured.” Sherlock helped her to her room, and settled her into a sitting position. “Where are your pyjamas?”

“I mostly just wear these.”

Sherlock tutted and went for the wardrobe. “You need to shed the day, Molly.”

“I need to what?”

“It’s something my father says.” Sherlock rummaged through the drawers. “In essence, he believes our clothes carry the stress and events of the day, and until you change for the night you’re not really out of it.”

“I had a lovely day. And night.”

Sherlock handed her a large night shirt to replace her maternity dress. “Certainly. But the principle’s the same.”

He turned his back and Mary sighed, undoing her dress and slipping the night shirt on. “Thanks. You can turn around.”

Sherlock did. “Mary, how are you coping right now? Mycroft knows how to be thoughtful, but he’s got limits.”

Mary gave him the best smile she could. “I’ll be alright. I’m doing very well for a dead woman.”

Sherlock flinched.

“I’d rather be with John, and you,” Mary said. She worried for a second—had she put enough of a pause between them? But Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, so perhaps it would all be okay.

“We’ll sort this out, Mary. You’ll be back with John before you know it. Certainly before the baby’s born.”

“I know John’s excited about being there for the birth,” Mary said. “So I dearly hope so. You’re making sure he’s eating right? And sleeping?”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course. Like I nearly always have.”

He looked so guilty, that Mary couldn’t resist at least attempting to comfort him. “You did as much as you could. And when I met him, he was a good man. He survived your death, even if he didn’t want to. And all he cared about was taking care of me without seeming like he was doing that, to save my pride I suppose. Those habits didn’t come from him, I recognized the pattern the first day the three of us spent together.”

“John is remarkably good at anticipating and fulfilling the needs of others,” Sherlock said quietly. “It’s just…he’s not so adept at helping himself. But as long as he thinks it’s helping another, he will look after himself.”

“He’s a wonderful man,” Mary said. Her smile felt a bit more real the first time. “I don’t deserve him, but I’m glad I have him.”

Sherlock looked at her seriously, moving to gently cup her face with his hands. “Mary, nothing has changed since the day you wed John in my eyes. You deserve him, Mary.”

Mary swallowed hard. Part of her wanted to say that she knew that Sherlock deserved him too. And the second thing was that maybe, just maybe, she wanted to be deserved by someone else too.

But those were things she couldn’t say, not seven months pregnant and under house arrest. Now wasn’t the time. There would never be a time.

So all she said was “thank you, Sherlock. Now go take care of our John.”

That was as close as she could get. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured our group deserved a break at some point in this story. It's essentially the last break they're going to get :)  
Cheers,  
Acme


	29. Battle Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene gets to have an unexpected reunion.

“Miss Adler,” Mycroft called up the stairs.

Irene looked down. “Yes?”

To her surprise, Mycroft was actually smiling at her. “I think you may want to change.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“I just know that while I enjoy dressing well for myself, as you do, I dress differently when I go to see Greg.”

Irene clutched the banister. “Did you—you found her?”

“I did. She’s been living up in Dundee under a different name, but it is her. And I did some checking; she’s still safe.”

Safe. Safe meaning that Kate hadn’t gotten scooped up with all the mess Irene had left behind. Safe meaning that she was still loyal.

“Where is she now?”

“Cara will take you when you’re ready,” Mycroft answered.

Irene dashed back to her room. Throwing off her clothes was the work of a moment; she needed a better outfit.

It took some doing, despite her wardrobe being much smaller than it once was, but Irene was finally satisfied with blue trousers and a pale pink shirt—her and Kate’s favourite colours. For the first time in years, she wore her hair down, and slipped on the earrings that were a present from Kate once upon a time. They were silly, stupid fiberglass starfish, and Irene loved them.

She was cheerful until she got into the car, and then the nerves hit.

Irene wasn’t in love with Kate, not really. She never had been, even though she’d tried.  God , she’d tried so hard, because Kate was witty and funny and such a good Submissive. She kept all her secrets and kept her in line outside of the bedroom (because Irene needed it, if she was going to be honest with herself). But loving people didn’t come naturally to Irene, it never had. What she felt for Kate was stronger than what she’d felt for Sherlock, however briefly, but it still wasn’t proper love. And if it wasn’t, then it wasn’t going to be good enough for Kate. So Irene pushed the feelings away, kept sleeping with people, kept having sex with Kate and pretending that it was everything she wanted. Luckily Kate hadn’t put up with that sort of pretense for long, and she’d told Irene a secret that made them both happy.

And then, when she had to run, she’d run away from Kate as well. Kate didn’t say a word when Irene told her they had to split up. Kate ran to Botswana (probably, that’s where her family was from), and Irene ran for America (and then got yanked to Pakistan, and then back to America with Sherlock). And now, they were back to London, where they’d first met, first gotten together…and now their first reunion. How on earth was that going to go?

Irene closed her eyes and leaned back against the plush cushions of the car. There was nothing she could do to prepare for this. That was the best and the worst thing about Kate. She was completely unpredictable.

When the car finally stopped, Irene realized that in her panic, she’d forgotten to wear makeup. Well, it couldn’t be helped now. She couldn’t wait another minute; taking off her seat belt and opening the door took too much time.

“Second floor!” was called after her, and Irene entered like she owned the place. Through a door left slightly ajar, up two flights of stairs (she’d nearly stopped on the first, too much time in America), and there was a long hallway. There was only one open door.

Irene approached, suddenly panicked. Mycroft had already slipped once with Greg; that’s how she’d found Mary in the first place. What was she about to find in the flat? Had Kate been betrayed?

No. No, she wasn’t.

Kate’s favourite shoes were by the door, and Irene slipped hers off before she shut the door and locked it. There were noises coming from the next room, so Irene followed them.

And there she was, Kate in a white blouse and a short black skirt, no nylons, no jewelry or makeup. Plain Kate. It was her most attractive look.

Kate was busy stirring a large pot, and Irene just stood in the door, waiting for Kate to notice her. It took a few seconds, and Irene considered clearing her throat, but just then Kate looked up and her whole face lit up.

“Irene!”

Irene’s whole body grew hot. That smile, that wonderful smile, the first reason Irene kept coming back to Kate.

She rushed to Kate and kissed her, relearning what she’d never really forgot in those years apart. Kate was just as enthusiastic, trying to get them both undressed at the same time. Irene allowed the removal of their shirts, but she stopped Kate from touching her bra.

“Hold on, Kitty. You’re not getting willful, are you? That’s very rude.”

Kate was panting, her bra bright green, clashing perfectly with her hair. Irene pulled away so she could look her up and down at her leisure. “Fuck, I missed you.”

“It was so long, Irene. I wish I could have helped more.”

“You did brilliantly. And I would have come back sooner if I could. But I’m not going away again, alright? And if I am, you’re coming with me. Laws have changed; you can be my adoring wife.”

“Right,” Kate said sarcastically. “Because we’re so in love.”

They both laughed. Of course they weren’t. Sweet, aromantic Kate didn’t know how to be in love either, and it took a lot for Irene. Sherlock was a strange exception in her life, someone who challenged her. Who was an equal. But it wasn’t real, not the way Kate and the time they spent in bed together or in the study planning Irene’s next conquest was real. They’d long since stopped trying to figure out what they were, how to define their time together. It didn’t matter. Kate Winter and Irene Adler—their names belonged together, and so did they. There was nothing else to it.

Irene glanced into the pot and smirked. Simmering, homemade applesauce was in the pan, one of Kate’s favourite aftercare foods. The pot was nearly full.

“Well, Kitty. You must have been very well behaved while we were apart, have you?”

Kitty sank to her knees, nearly purring as she looked up. “Yes, Mistress. I was bad a few times, but I’ve actually been very good.”

“Well, then.” Irene cleared her throat. Dominating was like riding a bike, she told herself. “Have you at least managed to prepare our room?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And yourself?”

“In all ways, Mistress.”

Irene put her hands together. “Well, I certainly will reward you. But first…why don’t we talk through those few times you were bad, right? Good to get that over with.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will always ship Irene/Kate, because I just want to :)   
A short diversion before everything starts to GO. DOWN.  
Cheers,  
Acme


	30. Imagine A Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Janine finish their math homework.

“I’m going to go absolutely mental, Sherlock. I’m really going to lose it.”

Sherlock just let out a long sigh.

John and Greg had delivered their datasets that morning with long, tired faces. Mycrofts’s assistants had finished only a couple of hours before. Sherlock and Janine had then taken nearly four hours to look at the columns, brute forcing through several hundred combinations to eliminated thousands of possibilities. Once that was done, there came the painstaking details of eliminating further combinations based on their own logic, and writing out an algorithm to test their solutions for  Moriarty’s  algorithm.

Crunching data was one kind of brain exhaustion, but when the first seventy-eight carefully constructed potential solutions for the wretched, stupid, overly-complex algorithm had all failed…well, Sherlock could understand Janine’s frustration. Wholeheartedly empathize, in fact.

Not for the first time, Sherlock wondered if it wouldn’t be better to just wait until Moriarty emailed the finished formula to his Mum. It couldn’t be that much longer, surely, if he was planning on using it soon against their side.

But the logical side of his brain knew far better. It wouldn’t do to wait, because what if Moriarty didn’t send the full algorithm? And even if he did, he would hardly write down a helpful legend for all of the variables and send them off to his dear old maths professor (and Sherlock  hated  that). No, even if they got the new formula in an hour, it wasn’t like this work would be wasted. Understanding how Moriarty’s planning had evolved from that first go through meant understanding how he’d evolved up until now.

Three years was a long time to learn from your mistakes.

Sherlock straightened up. “After this round we’ll go take a break, alright? We can have sundaes again if you want.”

“I  want to go see Molly and Toby and drink tea,” Janine grumbled, but she starting typing again, still so patient, still ready to be of use.

Sherlock hated why she was like that.

Janine stopped typing and, with a grimace, hit enter. Then her face changed. “Sherl…”

Sherlock looked at her, hardly daring to hope…they’d been so close on attempt forty-nine, maybe this was another false alarm…

But then there was a series of cheerful beeps, and Janine’s eyes lit up. “That’s it!”

“Which one?” Sherlock moved around the table in a bit of a daze. “Which—”

“E and F were interchangeable, but only up to a point.” Janine clapped her hands. “Oh, fucking  finally!”

Sherlock looked at the screen, hardly daring to believe it, but Janine was right. They’d finally figured out the order of the variables.

Laughing, Sherlock grabbed hold of her and danced her around, narrowly avoiding the white boards and half a dozen extension cord. “We did it!”

When they calmed down, Janine took out her ponytail, letting her hair hang free for the first time in days. “I guess we have to start running them, right?”

Sherlock deflated a bit. “Yes, now we have to do that.”

Proving the algorithm right would speed this up, would give them a proper way to find everything. But they still had to run it on every single one of the cases.

Sherlock looked at Janine. “Let’s have sundaes and tell the others first?”

“You read my mind, mate.”

They sat in silence as they ate their sundaes—at least until Janine put down her spoon with a sigh. “So, Sherlock, what are you going to do?”

“What am I going to do about what?”

“What we talked about last week.”

Sherlock froze. “I don’t think I should have told you anything about that.”

“Maybe not. But you did, so what are you going to do now?”

“I told you, nothing. It’s not up to me.”

“Yeah, but you should at least tell them.”

“No.” Ever since that conversation, Sherlock had turned it over and over in his mind, and really there was only one logical answer. “I made no decision about our relationships; they did entirely independent of me. If anything is going to happen, it has to come from one of them.”

“Do you really think that’s going to happen?”

Sherlock put his chin in his hand. “I don’t know, honestly. But what I do know is that if it ever does, I can’t start it. It won’t be healthy that way. And I don’t know why, but it’s true.”

Janine looked at him thoughtfully. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t know why you’re right either, but you are. I’ll stop pushing.” She ran her spoon around the edge of her dish one last time, gathering the last of the syrup. “Alright, we’d best get back to it before we change our minds.” 

* * *

  


Two hours later, everyone was either linked through on a video call or in the room as Sherlock and Janine stood in front of one of the freshly scrubbed whiteboards. Only two pieces of paper were attached with magnets, showing the final algorithm with the variable meanings.

“So what does the algorithm tell us?” Greg asked. Straight to the point as always.

Sherlock traced his finger over the algorithm. “Well, firstly that Mother is right. This is advanced game theory; I’ve never seen it so complex. Humans don’t tend to think through so many steps, but since Moriarty’s decisions are all based on other parts of his web, the algorithm had to be complex.”

“But the solutions are actually quite simple,” Janine added. She wrote down three numbers; 

0.18 1.23 6.00

“These three numbers are the answers for nearly every case in our records linked to Moriarty, both solved and unsolved.” Janine pointed to 0.18. “These crimes had low payouts, low risk, and they were short. They were also some of the hardest to trace to Moriarty—there’s about six links in the chain to him.”

“So that’s the Kevin Bacon constant?” Mary snorted.

“Yes, although Moriarty isn’t nearly so good a dancer.” Sherlock picked it up. “The second one has crimes that have higher payouts and risk, but they’re still short, and they don’t have much of a tie to Moriarty. It’s also kinds of crimes—these ones are more into murders and large-scale thefts. The next number is higher risk, higher payouts, a little bit longer and closer to Moriarty—up to three ”

“Well, we’re starting to see the pattern, then. He likes short ones that are far away.”

“You’d think that,” Janine said. “But then you look at these numbers.”

22 22 46

“Those are the percentages per year roughly of each kind. He seems to like the riskier ones.”

“Why would you go to all the trouble of making an algorithm only to choose the ones that are the worst idea?” Greg asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Janine tapped the marker against her lip, thinking. “Think about it this way,” she said eventually. “Moriarty’s a gambler, but he’s not a craps player—he plays blackjack and counts cards. But he plays them in a casino where it’s the most dangerous to do it, because they’ve got security to throw people into the ocean with their hands cuffed. It’s the most fun for him.”

“And if you think it’s not partly about fun, remember that he’s literally faked his death for three years only to pop back up in the most dramatic fashion possible,” Sherlock added.

“Most dramatic?” John muttered.

“He did it way worse than I did!” Sherlock protested.

“We’re not going to have that discussion again, for God’s sake,” Janine snapped. “The point is, these are the patterns of ninety-nine percent of Moriarty’s crimes.”

That shut everyone up.

“He’s been involved with over a thousand criminal cases in just under ten years,” Janine continued. “These crimes have involved tens of thousands of people, whether they knew they were involved or not. And with all of that, only one percent of the crimes he was involved in have a failure rate. And by failure, I mean that he was discovered to be involved. One percent. You want to guess when those happened?”

“When we started to fight him?” John asked. “But no, it can’t just be us.”

“Actually, the vast majority started with you and Sherlock and a Study in Pink. There’s only three other times. The first was the case that brought him and Sebastian Moran together—I think, because a Seb M was involved and it was sniping. The second was the Carl Powers case, because he was spoken to at the time, and it’s included. And then the third one was ten years ago, and I know the case.” Janine drew a deep breath. “That was the case that he started to work with Magnussen.”

The room was quiet.

“A ninety nine percent rate of success isn’t anything to sneeze at,” Greg said. “Especially in over a thousand cases. Not to mention that he’s still a free man. Why does he need to update the sodding thing?”

“Because Sherlock’s back.” Mycroft glanced at his brother. “You survived the plot to destroy you, and you’ve come out better off. You still have the people you fought for, you still have your public reputation despite his best efforts. And you and the rest of us are the reason he’s failed in the past. He has to do something to plan around you this time.”

“That’s exactly what we thought,” Janine said proudly. “I’m not going to write out all the math by hand, because frankly life’s too short, but it’s the target value that kept causing a problem. No matter how you write the variable for Sherlock, or Greg, or Molly, or John, or any one of you, the answers vary wildly no matter if all the other variables are constant.  Okay I’m not sure if this makes sense, my point is that no matter what value you use for the target variable, the numbers are all over the place, but none of them are the three numbers above, even if identical values (minus the target) are used.  It’s a question of weighting. Moriarty couldn’t make it stick.”

“And right now he wants to pick us off one by one, starting with Mary.” John put his hand protectively over Mary’s belly. “But that one was a typical case, right? Since he thought he could control Irene.”

“Which potentially he might not have been entirely wrong.”

Janine raised her eyebrows.

Irene raised hers right back. “I’m not a murderer, but I do enjoy being alive. I have no idea what I would have done if it wasn’t someone Sherlock cared about. Definitely don’t know if it wasn’t one of my oldest friends.”

“But that’s the point, isn’t it?” Sherlock pointed at Irene. “You just said you weren’t sure, and that would be enough to take the risk down. But when we ran the old algorithm on Mary’s attempted murder, we found like five different answers. He’s still not sure, but five is less than the twenty-five or thirty there were before.”

“So the new algorithm is going to take out the human factor, then?”

“It’ll stop people like Molly and John and Greg from affecting the answer.”

“Sorry, what?” Molly and John said at the same time.

“Of course you are the ones who are really affecting it.” Sherlock smiled at them both, but the smile he turned to John was just a touch different. “You’re hard to predict. You lived ordinary lives well, if slightly miserably, but you’re all capable of rising to whatever circumstances arise. It’s hard to anticipate those who can be whatever they need to be in a moment.”

“So this algorithm might take out our capacity to outsmart him?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No numbers can do that. What it can do is give him better insight into how to approach us all.”

“You mean how to kill us all.”

“Yes.” Janine cleared her throat. “So now we have to wait until he emails Victoria again. Until then,we just need to keep being surprising. And one of the things we have to do that—” she faltered, gathering her strength, because she really didn’t want to say this. Saying it would make it painfully, incontrovertibly real. “I have to go back to Magnussen’s.”

“But you’ve already got all the files,” Molly said quickly. “Why would you have to go back to the building?”

“I didn’t take much when I left,” Janine explained. She could feel herself starting to drift, and concentrated on the sparkles in Molly’s shirt. “I still have access to the network, and I stopped it being shut down, but that’s it. I thought—I thought that was enough to be getting on with, there was so much…” she trailed off, trying to put it together.

“No one’s angry with you, Jan,” Molly said, breaking her out of her stupor. “The fact that you’re even thinking about doing this is brilliant. Right?”

The nods of agreement made Janine smile in spite of herself. “Well. The point is that sometimes Magnussen wrote things down properly, in a notebook. I found a couple when I went to clear out my desk, but there might be more. I’ve got to go back and look for them.”

“No one’s attempted to enter the premises since Moriarty proclaimed his return,” Mycroft said with a furrowed brow. “And no one but you went in between that and Magnussen’s death. Wouldn’t Moriarty have broken in or at least sent someone if he thought there were important files there?”

“But that’s just it,” Janine said. “He hasn’t. So either there aren’t any files there of any kind, or he just doesn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to go back there. That I wouldn’t be. A lot of bad things happened in those offices for us.”

“Right. But you can’t go there alone,” Greg said quickly. “If we plan it, I’m sure a few of us could come—”

“If he’s watching Magnussen’s office, having several people show up isn’t going to end well,” Mycroft cut him off. “Gregory, the risk is too great.”

“I’ll go with you, Janine.” Molly was quiet, but her voice and gaze were steady when she met Janine’s eyes. “It’ll be easy enough to disguise me, and I can help you look. I will go with you.”

Janine swallowed hard. “You don’t have to, Molls.”

“That’s why I’m going to.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any serious mathematicians among my readers...I am so sorry, I did my best!  
I'll post a full legend of the variables (I figured those out, just not the formula itself) once the story is complete, in the epilogue.  
Cheers,  
Acme


	31. Put It To Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly helps Janine return to Magnussen's office, and deals with the aftermath.

Molly wound the scarf around her head again. “I hate this pattern.”

“I think Mary thought you’d like the yellow.”

“The yellow’s fine, the horrible green isn’t.”

Molly’s hair was already dusted a fine white with a combination of flour, baby powder, and whipped cream, oddly enough. The glasses Sherlock had donated to the cause were huge for her face (but they were better than the strong golden pince-nez), but they made her eyes look wide and vulnerable. Short as she was, Molly had to stoop to fit into the old-fashioned dress and shoes, and the rain jacket was cut in the most unflattering way possible. She hadn’t protested any of it, but the head wrap to keep the rain off a non-existent perm was the last straw.

“I know loads of seniors who dress fashionably,” she exclaimed, tossing the head wrap away. Toby chased after it, but Janine snatched it up. “There’s no need for this rubbish.”

“There is going to be a need right now,” Janine said firmly, tilting Molly’s head up. She gently slung the wrap around Molly’s head. “It’s raining today. You have to be ready for the rain. Now, why are you coming to the building?”

Molly coughed. “I’m just here to talk to those nice young lads on the third floor.”

The third floor of the building was a very poorly disguised massage parlor for female clientele. It matched the fourth floor, which was a very poorly disguised massage parlor for male clientele. Magnussen wasn’t overly progressive.

“Right. And when you go up, wait for my text, and then just get in the elevator."

“I know, Jan.” Molly patted her hand and did her best old lady voice. “I’ll be fine, dearie.” It came out as much more of a croak than anything else. They both laughed.

“Are you going to be okay, Jan?” Molly asked. She was afraid of the careful stillness in Janine’s face that had been there since yesterday, since Janine had actually said she was going to go back. She knew exactly how hard it was. Hell, it took her three tries to enter her apartment successfully when she got back from Dublin with Toby, and that was her home. Jim had only been in there for ten weeks. Janine had worked for Magnussen for…wait, how long was it?

“How long did you work for Magnussen?” Molly asked, dropping the old lady voice.

Janine’s mask wavered, but only for a minute. “It was my first job out of university,” she answered. “Just over twelve  years. ”

God.  Molly didn’t know what to say, so she just offered Janine her arm. “Come on. Let’s go get this over with, shall we?”

* * *

Standing in an empty massage parlor was actually more frightening than Molly had imagined. The lights were on, the rooms were open with no places for anyone to hide, but there were big windows and Molly didn’t want to take off a single part of her disguise, and—

Molly trembled and sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands. She was an  adult , she’d faced off in far scarier situations. Why on earth was she falling apart now?

Because you’re alone .

Ever since Moriarty came back, Molly was with someone else. Even the nights that Janine came home late from her work, she was with Toby and the whole place just sang with Janine, and she would be back. More often than not Molly would just fall asleep those nights, curled on the sofa with Toby, waking up when Janine came in. And of course there were the nights they spent with the others…

So this was the first time in six weeks where she was genuinely alone in a room again.

Molly didn’t like it one bit.

That was a shame, because once everything got back to normal of course she’d be headed back to her flat, the one that still had so few personal touches after six years, the one that didn’t feel like home even with Toby there.

This room was just a portent, a sign of everything to come.

The elevator dinged, and Molly shook off the nonsense as best she could. Janine needed her right now, and she was going to be ready for that. That was what she did. She helped people.

* * *

The quiet ding of the opening elevator doors was a familiar sound for Janine—a pitch higher than the other floors, a message that you were now in Magnussen’s world, not your own. For a second Janine wavered, but Molly was there in her ridiculous outfit, so it wasn’t like before. It couldn’t be.

The entire place was empty, which also wasn’t unusual. Magnussen worked odd hours, calling Janine in at midnight to work an eighteen hour shift as he closed a particularly heinous case, so often it was just the two of them.

Janine made for his office first.It was the most logical place to find the notebooks, but it was also the first place she needed to be. She needed to stand there and breathe in his absence.

With Molly following close behind, Janine went in, stopping herself from knocking at the last second. That was vital. You always knocked before you went in.

But Magnussen wasn’t there to punish her, and Janine let her hand fall back to her side.

The office was comfortable, a beautiful old cherry desk with a plush chair behind it. The walls were solid blue, with two lovely paintings—one wall had a giant landscape of a beach at high noon, and the other was a jungle at twilight. They were expertly painted, and the moods seemed to match each other perfectly. Janine hated them.

“This was his seat of power,” Janine murmured.

“What?”

“That’s what he always called it. The seat of all his power, no matter where we were. I should have known Appledore didn’t have any vaults.”

“But you didn’t, and that’s okay.” Molly tapped Janine’s shoulder. “Where are we going to look first?”

“Er…” Janine shook herself out of her fog. “Why don’t we start with the desk?”  Obviously, Janine. Pull yourself together.

The two of them started to pull out drawers. Janine wasn’t entirely surprised to find nothing there, not even in the secret compartments in every. Damn. Drawer. One had a pad of paper, but there was nothing on it, and they checked with everything that Mycroft had given them.

“What about the paintings?” Molly asked.

Janine got to her feet and lifted the beach painting off of the wall. There was a safe behind it, and it was unlocked. She pulled it open, standing to the side, but Molly’s disappointed look told her that there was nothing there.

Next they checked behind the jungle painting, which had nothing behind it at all. Janine started to roll up the rug while Molly checked the curtains, but Janine was starting to give up hope.

“He probably burned them,” she said out loud. Her voice sounded strange to her.

The next thing she knew, she was sitting down, and Molly’s hands were on her face.

“Jan? Jan, dear, come back to me.”

Janine stared at her in confusion. “I’m here,” she said slowly. “Right here. What’s the matter?”

“You don’t feel like you’re here.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“Okay.” Molly rubbed her arms. “We can go soon. I’m just going to check one more place and then we’re going to leave. Watch me, Janine.”

Janine obeyed. Molly walked around the desk, and then got to her knees next to the plush chair. She lifted the cushion off the chair, shook it curiously, and examined it from all sides. Then she ducked her head under the chair and then cried out in delight. “Found it!”

“You did?” Janine asked. Her tongue felt heavy. Everything felt heavy.

“I thought it might be here.” Molly stood back up, holding a collection of five thin notebooks bound together with tape. “He’s not the sort of person to leave it lying about, but he would also want to keep things on hand."

Janine nodded. That made sense. She was always close by too, just like the notebooks, held in place by Magnussen…

“Janine, come on,” Molly said, holding out her hand. “Magnussen is dead and gone, and we’re alive. We’re going to leave now, and we’re never going to come back.”

The fog was still swirling around her, and Janine felt cold and clammy, but Molly’s hand was warm and firm as she held Janine’s, and that point got Janine out of her former workplace, never to return.

* * *

Janine didn’t remember much of the trip back to her apartment besides Molly’s hand in hers. Life was starting to feel real again, but she wasn’t quite ready to face it. Molly didn’t say a word, neither did the driver, so Janine stayed quiet.

Molly guided her out of the car and Janine let her, tilting her face to look away from the cameras as an afterthought. Their steps echoed loudly as they went up all fifteen stairs.

To Janine’s relief, Molly still didn’t say anything. She sat Janine down on the couch, letting go just long enough to grab the thick plaid blanket and drape it around Janine. Toby leapt onto her lap, and Janine stroked over his ears.

“I’m going to make us some tea, alright Jan?” Molly pressed her hand. “We don’t have to talk until you’re ready.”

Janine wasn’t ready quite yet, so she just leaned back and pet Toby, who was calmer than usual. He’d even started to purr by the time Molly returned to her field of view with a steaming mug.

Janine took the mug with one hand and raised it to her lips, inhaling the scent of chamomile and…hibicus?

“I mixed them,” Molly explained. “I thought it might taste nice together.”

It certainly smelled nice, and Janine was content to sit there inhaling the steam and listen to Toby’s soft purr.

But life was real, and Janine took a sip of tea. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Molly was perched on the edge of the couch, like she was about to fly away.

“C’mere,” Janine said. She lifted up the blanket. “You don’t look comfortable.”

Molly slid over, and Janine wrapped them both in the blanket. “Much better.”

Sipping tea and petting Toby took up quite a bit of Janine’s energy, but she put some aside to lean her head against Molly’s shoulder and breathe slowly. In and out, in and out, take a sip of tea, keep breathing…

When the mug was empty Molly took it from her without a word. Now that both hands were free, Janine took Molly’s hand again. “Thank you.”

“You helped me. The least I could do was help you too.”

“I didn’t expect it to be so bad,” Janine mused. “I was working between Sherlock being shot and…and Christmas. I was there when I knew everything about Mary and Sherlock and Magnussen.”

“But you were still in crisis mode,” Molly said gently. “Like me with Moriarty. I didn’t let my guard down all those weeks, and it wasn’t until it was over, that I knew I was safe that I actually realized how frightened I’d been. I couldn’t face it until it was over, I suppose. It would have been too much to bear.”

“And I didn’t see a way out then,” Janine muttered. “I thought Sherlock…well, I thought he might have been able to help, if I’d asked. But then I knew that he was hurt, and I didn’t want anything else to happen to him. Nothing. And now…now Magnussen is dead.” Panic seized her. “He is dead, isn’t he? He’s not like—”

“He’s really dead,” Molly promised. “We all checked more than once. He’s dead and gone, Jan, he can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Yes he can.” The words tasted bitter. “He can, and probably will for a while. I can’t break his hold.”

“Yet.” Molly patted her hand. “We have to say “not  yet ”, because we will. You will.”

“Thanks Molls.” Janine took a deep breath. “Well, I think the worst of that is over. Might have a cry later, but I don’t want to right now. Want to watch a film?”

Molly furrowed her brow. “I don’t know. I think you need to do something with your hands. Make something, you know?”

For a second Janine was surprised; would Molly really be that bold? But then Molly clapped her hands and untangled he rself from the blanket. “I’ve got an idea!”

She rushed to her room and Janine considered Toby. “Your mummy’s a bit odd sometimes,” she said matter-of-factly. “But it’s a good kind of odd, so don’t fret.”

Molly returned, her eyes sparkling, clutching a bundle of cloth and bobbins and needles at strange angles.

“What on earth is that?”

“It’s a baby blanket for John and Mary’s daughter,” Molly explained. “I can’t knit, so I bought some nice fabric to embroider. But with all that’s been going on, I’m not sure if I’ll finish in time, especially if Mary delivers early. Would you…do you want to help?”

The fabric was warm and soft and light green, with delicate blue flowers along two sides. The other two were plain.

“I want to do yellow up those sides,” Molly explained. “Do you know how to embroider?”

That made Janine smile. “I’m the one who embroidered these cushions and our bedspreads.”

Molly’s eyes blew wide. “Really? Gosh, that must have taken ages even with a machine.”

“It took just over a year,” Janine said. She picked up the yellow thread and reached for the pack of needles. “And I didn’t use a machine.”

Molly’s eyes were still wide as could be. “You have got to tell me all about that. How did you start out?”

Janine threaded a needle, glad that the eye wasn’t too small. She’d always hated that. “Well, it started because I wanted to get a pretty set of cushions, and I couldn’t find exactly what I wanted…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft ladies are soft...and soft for each other :)   
Cheers,  
Acme


	32. Dear Dr. Trevor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Victoria Trevor, or Mrs. Victoria Holmes, receives an email.

_Dear Dr. Trevor, _   
_I am sorry, but I can’t call you Victoria, as much as you’ve asked. To me you’re still the professor who actually took an interest in my future. No one else had ever done that before in my life. Addressing you by your professional title is the least I can do to show respect. _

  
_That’s why I’m proud to present the final product of years of work and all your kind guidance, the Trevor James algorithm (I wanted to put my name in, I’m afraid that I still have a bit of that old pride). It’s vastly improved over my old method, and the complexity of the variables involved should have wide application. I’ve tested it and found it to be perfectly suited to my purposes at last, but its versatility could be used for anything. You’re welcome to use it for whatever you wish; I’d be happy to provide guidance, as balancing the variables can be tricky (trust me, this is 10 years in the making). _

  
_I will likely take some time to do any kind of publishing. My notes are rather scattered, and I want to conduct more testing in other areas to test the versatility. When I do start to write the paper, may I write to you and work through the paper together? I think it would be a crowning achievement to publish a paper with you, who’s meant so much to my mathematical development._

_Cheers, and thanks again so much, _   
_Dr. Anthony James_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short, but it's go-time now! This weekend is going to be very interesting...  
Cheers,  
Acme


	33. How to Be Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the new algorithm sent out, the BSI have to make a new plan.   
In the mean time, Mary, John, and Sherlock all have to be brave.

Sherlock glared at his brother. “If you’re suggesting we’re not taking this seriously, brother mine—”

“Sherlock, stop being a petulant child and listen to what I’m actually saying. For once.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother, who was perched on the sofa at Mary’s hideout. John had insisted on coming here at least once more, considering that Mary was now just over a month away from giving birth to their daughter. Mycroft had acquiesced.

Now he looked between Sherlock and John sternly. “All I am attempting to ascertain is whether or not you are confident in the procedures you’ve put in place in the areas already searched.”

“We are,” John said with all the confidence Sherlock didn’t feel. It was always that way when he stood face to face with his older brother. No matter how sure he was, there was always the feeling that Mycroft would spot something that he’d missed.

“It’s a combination of the technology you gave us and some CCTV lookup,” John went on. “We have…well, patrols, for lack of a better word, and movements between the buildings have facial recognition running. Wasn’t it Anthea who wrote it?”

There was a glimmer of pride in Mycroft’s eyes. “Yes indeed.”

“Well then, oughtn’t you to trust her? It’s bringing up loads of potential matches, but none of them are Moriarty on a second go through. And with all those sensors and cameras and heat sensors and all of that, I really think we can be confident about that.”

“Yes.” Mycroft thought that over. “Well, that appears to be sound. Thank you John. Brother. You’ve done a good job.”

“Now we’ve just got the rest of London to cover,” John said with a groan.

“I don’t think we have to,” Sherlock cut in. “I think it’s time we had Moriarty come to us instead.”

Mycroft’s gaze sharpened. “Are you certain the timing is right?”

“We’ll have to wait for Molly and Janine to finish their research,” Sherlock allowed. “But yes, I think it is time. The longer we wait, the more chance that he’ll make a move.”

“We don’t need to leave it to chance, we have the algorithm,” Mycroft pointed out. “Perhaps once Miss Hooper and Miss Hawkins have completed entering Magnussen’s information, they will be able to run those possibilities.”

“It still might not work though, right?” John swallowed. “I hate to be negative, but it is true that we can’t predict everything to a specific 100%, right?”

“But neither can he, John,” Sherlock replied. “He has no capacity to be omniscient. All we can do is find his trail of numbers for these events, and then we find the place to head him off. And if that means drawing him out, so be it. We should probably do it soon anyways, before the baby is born.”

“Right.” John looked towards Mary’s bedroom for a minute, and Sherlock tried not to wince.

“The idea of a trap is a good one, but we have to wait for Molly and Janine. You should go to Greg tonight, Mycroft. John and I will go home soon.”

Mycroft blushed, which was hilarious to Sherlock. “Very well. Just alert Jaime when you’re ready to be driven home.”

“Of course. Goodnight Mycroft.”

“Goodnight John. Little brother.” Mycroft left the room, calling a goodnight to Mary over his shoulder.

Sherlock turned to John. “I’ll get in touch with Jaime. He’ll come back around for you when you’re ready.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, are we not leaving together?”

Sherlock shifted his eyes over to the door of Mary’s bedroom. “I just thought—well. You should spend some time with your wife. It’s been a while since you’ve had time for that.”

John blushed. “Wait, are you leaving so we can have sex? Because that’s not happening tonight.”

“No? Well then, you can stay overnight, or—”

“Not what I meant. I just—” John sighed, and Sherlock was more confused than ever. John was hesitating, but he didn’t really want to be. What was wrong?

“It’s mostly for me.” Mary came into the room. “Both of you need to learn how to whisper properly, by the way. I don’t feel much like sex, honestly. Haven’t for the last month.”

“And I feel similarly,” John continued. “I miss you, darling, but I think it’s just one of those times.”

Sherlock remembered those times, when there was no woman for months at Baker Street, when John’s laptop was free of pictures of naked women (and once, but only once, naked men).

“But it’s good you two are staying,” Mary continued. “Because we all need to talk.” She f olded her hands across her stomach. “Listen, you two. I’m seven and a half months pregnant, this baby could be born any minute, and I’m tired of dancing around this issue.”

“What do you mean, Mary?”

“I mean what you told me the first night you went to sleep beside me, John.” Mary saw her husband’s face shut down, going into calm mode. “And what you told me again the night before we got married.”

John looked like she’d struck him. “Mary, I can’t—you can’t—”

“John Hamish Watson,” Mary said, as gently as she possibly could. “I adore you. You’re a wonderful, good person, and I am not afraid of you leaving me. Not anymore. I’m not accusing you of infidelity, but it’s never been a secret that part of your heart belongs to someone else.”

* * *

John couldn’t breathe all of a sudden. Mary couldn’t seriously be…how could she say this? How could she ruin every wall he’d put up, even before he met her?

Sherlock had such deep confusion in his eyes, John couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “Mary,” he said (but he didn’t look away from John), “John and I are friends.”

“That’s what you’ve both settled on,” Mary answered. “You’ve both decided that separately, haven’t you? That you didn’t want to lose each other, and friendship was good, and the risk was too great. And then you went away, Sherlock, and John met me before you came back.”

There was a strange roaring sound in John’s ears, because Mary was  right, but wasn’t she talking about him? Just him?

But Sherlock’s calm was shattered, and he stared at John with hungry, disbelieving eyes.

“You should have hated me, Sherlock.” Mary’s voice was still soft. “But you didn’t. You gave us everything you had, because you loved John so much you wanted him to be happy. And you stepped away. You never should have had to do that, and it’s my fault.”

That made both of them look at her.

“With everything in my past…everything I was trying to outrun and everything I wanted to become…I couldn’t let you get too close, Sherlock. I was happy to give you as much time with John as you wanted; it’s never bothered me, because John’s nothing if not loyal. But I couldn’t let you love me too much; I thought if you did, you would see me. Should have known better than that. Look at you; you didn’t know that John is in love with you.”

John took a deep breath as Sherlock looked him in the eye for the first time, his gaze so heated John could feel it.

“Were you?”

John opened his mouth, but Mary interrupted.

“Is, Sherlock, not was.”

* * *

Sherlock’s mind was whirring like it did when he gave up cigarettes. It was running full speed, but it was caught on one unbelievable, impossible thought.

John is in love with me.

That wasn’t possible, he’d never seen it, not once, not ever. Love? Certainly, he knew that John loved him. And he loved John, he wasn’t only in love with him; he’d never lied to John about that.

“It’s past time for this to stop,” Mary said. Her voice was the only thing keeping his mind on track. “I want you to be open with each other.”

And the storm was back in John’s eyes, but this time it didn’t fade. He reached out for just a second and Sherlock grabbed hold of him. Somehow they had their foreheads together, and Sherlock took one breath, because this couldn’t be real, this couldn’t be John in his arms…

Then John pressed his lips to his, just once, softly, and kept looking at him with stormy eyes…

And Sherlock kissed him for all he was worth, with nearly four years worth of knowing this man,  loving  this man, and never being able to explain that to himself. Why this one person stood out from everyone else he’d ever known.

Well, everyone except the woman who John had made his wife.

He pulled away from John with difficulty, and saw her sitting in the chair. She had tears in her eyes now, and they were real, trembling just below her eyelashes.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. You deserve him too, you know.”

* * *

Mary felt a kick to her side and winced. The baby was getting stronger every day, but she was still so small. Mary had to be strong for her daughter, because it might just be her. Oh, John would be involved no matter what, because he was a good man and was so excited to be a father…but he wouldn’t be there every day. Mary had to be, and she would have to explain why she let John go.

But then John was beside her, and one of his hands rested right where their daughter had kicked her.

“Mary, I won’t leave you. I can’t.”

Mary watched Sherlock’s heart break and swore. “John—”

“Oh, I’m not leaving him either,” John answered. There was joy in every line of his face, but Mary didn’t understand. “Do you remember the first thing you told me?”

“Not really,” Mary admitted. The early days of their relationship were so coloured by John’s grief and her secrets, the details started to blur.

“You told me I needed to learn to be selfish. Well, I’ve been working on that, and I’m ready.”

“What do you mean?” Mary tried to stop her hands from trembling, but it wasn’t working.

“I want you both,” John said simply. “I love you both, and I don’t damn well want to choose. I want to move back to Baker Street and we can sort out sleeping arrangements and work out how sex comes into it and buy another chair and never have to mow a sodding lawn ever again. I want to raise our daughter together, the three of us. And to hell with what people will say; they always talk, they always say stupid things. I choose both of you. That’s what I want.”

Mary looked at Sherlock, who looked like he might collapse. “Sherlock, come here.”

The detective stumbled as he dropped to his knees beside them both.

“Are you alright with this?” Mary asked. “I can do this for you.”

Sherlock put a hand on her cheek. “Mary, I…”

“Oh my god.” Mary blinked, felt tears run down her cheek, over his fingers. She didn't care. “You love me too, don't you?”

“You were right, before,” Sherlock answered. “You kept me away from your heart, as best as you could. But you weren’t quite successful with that.”

Taking a chance, Mary leaned forward and kissed Sherlock carefully. Just once, just a little, because she could be wrong. She was wrong about John.

But she wasn’t, because Sherlock pressed his lips to hers, fingers in her hair. When he did pull away Mary felt a little dizzy.

* * *

John watched the man he loved kiss the woman he loved—the two people he loved and cared about most in the world—and he felt like he’d come home at last. Since Sherlock’s return he’d felt like he was always visiting, either in the world where he had a life with Mary, or the world where he had a life with Sherlock. And now it looked like those worlds could disappear and be replaced with one where he lived with both of them. Where he belonged with both of them.

Sherlock drew him closer, as if he’d read his mind, and the three of them sat together, their heads touching, breathing in each other’s air. It was a bit cramped with Mary’s belly, and John’s legs were stiff and it was an awkward angle because Sherlock was so much taller, even kneeling…

And John didn’t give a  damn.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay it's JOHNLOCKARY! I really hope that didn't come out of left field for you, dear readers--it wasn't supposed to be a slow burn, exactly, so I hope the hints made sense! I won't add the relationship tag until Sunday so there's a couple days without spoilers, plus I can bulk edit.   
What? More tags coming?   
:)   
Cheers,  
Acme


	34. How to Be Honest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Janine have an important conversation.

“Yes, we finished!” Janine said excitedly.

Molly glanced up from the last bit of the embroidery. They’d spent a good deal of the night working on getting the information from the notebooks into the algorithm, and finally, at half four in the morning, they’d finished and confirmed what they knew so far, and one more thing.

Janine was pacing the room with her earpiece, throwing her hands up as she spoke to Mycroft. “There were about twenty cases in there marked with a spider for Moriarty, but they’re not in the rest of the data. In fact, those cases were failures, even for Magnussen. So now we have an even better grasp of how he decides cases, because those twenty were handpicked by Magnussen and he went along with them.” She paused for a minute, cocking her head. “Yes, that seems to be the case. There are a few variables more important than the others, and with this and the other failures, I think we’ve gotten a good picture. We can start to plan the trap!” She paused again. “Yeah, alright Myc. We’ll hold on here. Let us know if anything else comes up, alright? Ta. Have a good day.”

Janine pulled out the earpiece and tossed it into the air, grinning at Molly. “We did it, Molls! Mycroft said he and Greg and Mare are going to start running some ideas, and then we’ll all talk later about the trap we want to run.”

“It looks like things are coming to a head,” Molly said quietly. “Maybe it will all be over soon.”

“That would be great,” Janine replied from across the room. “It’ll be good to get on with my plan.”

“Which is what?”

“Go to my cottage and get it all set up. Then figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Mycroft mentioned that he might have some work for me, actually. Something I can do remotely. Maybe I’ll just move up to Sussex.”

Molly winced. “Sussex is rather far away.”

“It’s only 90 minutes away by train. I had to make sure it was fairly close, in case I had to come back into work suddenly.” Janine looked at Molly curiously. “What’s the matter?”

Molly gathered her courage.“What if you didn’t move to Sussex?”

Janine still looked nonplussed. “I suppose I’d stay here then. Get new work. I could join you lot on more cases, that could be fun. And then if Sherlock and Mycroft’s fighting gets too irritating, I can escape. I’ll take you with me; you could do with some fresh sea air, and I’m sure Toby would have a good time.”

“I’d like that,” Molly answered.  Say it, you coward.  “I’d like something better, though.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’d love to go with you and not stay in the guest room.”

Janine’s eyebrows went up. “Sorry, what do you mean?”

“I mean I want to help you embroider our next bedspread,” Molly said in a rush, "no matter how long it takes. I want to have Toby’s kittens upstairs and eat quesadillas and drink flower tea. I want to have dance parties and date nights and plan our cottage. I want you, Jan, and everything that comes with you.”

Janine didn’t speak. She stayed silent long enough for every possible worst case scenario to go through Molly’s mind. Whoever said there was only one worst case scenario had never suffered—

Then Janine was on her, and she picked her up and pinned her against the wall. Molly was now eye to eye with her for the first time, and she was shocked to see joy in them.

“I want that too, Molls,” Janine said, before she pressed her lips to Molly in a joyfully passionate kiss, and Molly kissed back, holding onto Janine for dear life, dangling and not caring because for the first time in a long time, she felt comfortable.

* * *

Martha Hudson was just finishing up the dishes when she heard pounding on the door.

Worried, she checked the cameras. It was Harry, and he looked utterly out of breath and worried. Cursing her hip, she dashed down the hall as quickly as shoe could to let him in. Billy nearly fell into her, and Martha caught him as she shoved the door shut.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, running her eyes over him. No, he was uninjured, just exhausted, sweat soaked through his hoodie.

“Where’s your warm coat?”

“It was warmer earlier,” Harry rasped out. “Martha, I know who he’s coming after next.”

“You do?” Mrs. Hudson drew him further down the hallway, ready to start calling or to grab her knives, whichever came first.

Harry nodded, slumping into the kitchen chair. “There’s a couple of Rats that we’re staying in touch with. And one of them got talkative tonight—he doesn’t know that I’m on your side, he just thinks I’m another bum.” He held up a hand before Martha could say a word. “I know, I know, you told me not to say that. Anyways, he told me to stay away from the Strand next week. I asked him why I had to stay off one of the longest bloody streets in this city, and he told me it was gonna get real bloody when that copper came around.”

Martha caught her breath. “Are you sure?”

“Really sure. The idiot told me everything.” Harry looked up at her. “Martha, they’re going to kill Greg.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERYONE IS TOGETHER NOW YAY!   
Like I said, I'll update the tags properly tomorrow, I wanted to make sure to give some time without spoilers.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	35. Saving Scotland Yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Greg's murder being planned, Mycroft decides he's done with being patient.

“No, they damn well won’t,” Mycroft snarled. Clenching his fists, he tried to get himself back under control. This was ridiculous; they’d already thwarted Mary Watson’s murder, but this was different. This was  Greg.

And Mycroft knew exactly why. Irene told them that she knew where Mary was because she followed Mycroft home from his first night with Greg. There was no doubt that Moriarty had figured out the nature of that relationship, and even if he hadn’t, it would be enough that the Iceman showed that much attention to another human being that wasn’t related (and tolerated) by blood.

Greg’s hand on his didn’t calm him much. “Don’t you be afraid,” Mycroft told him. “You will be fine, if I have to burn this city down to do it.”

“You won’t have to, I’m sure,” Greg answered. “Now let’s make a plan, alright?” He looked at Irene. “So Moriarty found you and Kate at a restaurant, right? What did he say?”

Irene Adler was sitting across from them, her Kate pressed against her and rage in her face. “Yeah, I was stupid. Went back to an old haunt. And he told us all about it."

* * *

Irene lounged next to Kate in the restaurant, looking all the world like she was relaxed. Only the bite of her ring into the palm of her hand betrayed her.

“Jim, I already did one murder. I can’t possibly be on the hook for two.”

“Of course you’re not, Irene,” Jim said soothingly. “You’ve paid your debt, all is forgiven. No, this won’t be you, and it won’t even be Seb, as much as he wants to shoot things. You both have very distinctive work; you can’t help it. And that’s fine—artists should sign their work. But I want to make sure there’s a hint, a possibility that it wasn’t us this time. No, this is how it’s going to happen…”

* * *

Molly copied down the last number and turned to Janine. “Do all these make sense?”

Janine scanned the figures. “Yes, that’s fine. Irene said a robbery-murder, didn’t she?”

“No, she said an assault-murder,” Molly answered. “A brawl gone wrong after dark. Someone will go to jail, but I don’t know if it will even be the person who strikes the—the killing blow.” She shot an apologetic look at Greg and Mycroft.

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Very well. So what does this tell us?”

“It tells us that he’s using the new algorithm,” Janine said. “This had a higher rate of failure in the first one, but the difference in variable weights are making it much more favourable odds.”

“Which also means that he doesn’t know that we have it,” Mycroft mused.  Stay calm, stay calm, it’s the only way you’ll get through this.  “Unless he’s drawing us into a very elaborate trap.”

“Could he be?” John Watson asked tensely.

Sherlock shook his head. “Any more variables in here and it falls apart. It’s still risky as it is, like Janine said. If he’s going to do this, it’s going to be just the one.”

“So what do we do?” Greg asked. “Do we go along with it, and—”

“NO!” Mycroft winced—when was the last time he’d raised his voice that way? “No,” he repeated, more calmly. “That is not an option this time. The only reason we allowed that with Mary because we were reacting with less time and less idea of why she was being killed. Now we know, and we’re not going to fake this. There’s no point. If we do, we’ll just have to keep predicting our own murders until either he slips up or we do. The organizations around the world are starting to get restless; it won’t be long before everything truly begins. It’s time to spring a trap.”

“What sort of trap?”

“The kind that will finish Moriarty for good,” Mycroft answered. “Now here’s what we’re going to do. Mary Watson is about to have her prenatal appointment, and I don’t want to cause her undue stress until we know that the baby is still healthy. When that’s finished, she tends to sleep for an hour. I want the rest of us to spend that hour coming up with ideas for this endeavor. Work in groups or alone—this isn’t for extra credit. When Mary’s woken up, we’ll bring her here and she can help work on the international angle.” Mycroft took a second to look every single person in th eye. “We are not going to leave this place until we have a complete plan, and then we will spring it within…how long until Moriarty’s attempt is to take place?”

“Six days,” Irene answered. “That’s when he’ll be on duty in that part of the city.”

Greg nodded. “That’s right. Unfortunately.”

“Then we will spring it in the next six days. And in doing so, we’re going to finish off this fucking monster. The time has come for us to be rid of him.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Protective!Mycroft is my favourite Mycroft.   
Sorry about missing the update yesterday, back to normal uploads now, with updated tags :)   
Cheers,  
Acme


	36. Prenatal Cares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary has her prenatal appointment...the last bit of calm before the storm.

Mary’s phone beeped, and she lunged for it. Of course her belly got in the way, so it was more of an undignified lie down, but she picked it up quickly.

Appt time. Ten minutes. MH.

Mary sighed with relief.

Getting prenatal care when you’re supposed to be dead is quite challenging, as Mary discovered. She had trained as a nurse, and John was a doctor, but he couldn’t come over very often, even since the three of them began their arrangement.

But prenatal care was really important when you were thirty-nine and having your first child, especially with the life Mary had led up to now. So Mycroft arranged for a doctor to come see Mary.

Dr. Summers was Mycroft’s personal physician, and Mary was sure that wasn’t her real name. She kept secrets, had a superb bedside manner, and was willing to work in the strange conditions of the basement hideout, though she scolded Mycroft for it. 

“I know she’s supposed to be dead, and she has to be careful. I understand all of that. But she needs some damn fresh air!”

That had Mary going out every day in a car, heavily disguised, and was taken to a lovely garden, somewhere that Mary didn’t recognize. She walked around for an hour, sat by the pond, and fed the ducks. Then she’d go back and be alone, and text her husband and her lover.

That still felt odd, but it was a good kind of odd. It was something to distract her from the creeping madness and boredom she could feel on the edge of her mind. Realizing that yes, it was possible to have John and Sherlock both, that there was a real future in the works for the three of them—well no, the four of them—it kept her mind active. After all, there were so many details to iron out. Would Sherlock move in with them, or should they move to Baker Street? And if they did, would the three of them share a room and put their daughter upstairs? No, probably not at first, the amount of times they’d have to get up every night would be a nightmare. They could keep her in a cradle in their room at first? And then how much did Sherlock want to be involved with the baby anyways? Would he want to be a second father to their daughter, or would he rather take on the godfather role that Mary and John had already planned? And how on earth would they be able to baby proof the flat?

Those questions were enough to occupy her for hours. Texting back and forth with Sherlock and John solved some of them—yes, Sherlock wanted to be a father figure but was unsure if he’d do a very good job at it, and yes, they should move into Baker Street. Accordingly, Mary started to get lists together of things to pack, things to sell, all of it. The nursery things would be easy enough to bring over…

A knock at the door upstairs, followed by a beep to her phone, shook her out of her reverie.

“Come in!” she called.

Dr. Summers came down the stairs, her usual smile seeming extra bright in the darkened room. “Mary, what on Earth are you doing sitting in the dark?”

“I had a bit of a migraine,” Mary replied. “My medication worked though. I just forgot to turn the lights back on.”

As she explained, Dr. Summers moved through the room, switching on the lights and setting up the ridiculously high-tech equipment Mycroft had insisted on.

“Right. Well, come on over, and let’s see how the little one’s doing.”

The appointment only took a few minutes—baby was fine, she was going to be a bit small but that was nothing to worry about just yet (after all, she had another month). Mary watched her daughter move around on the ultrasound. It was a surreal experience, watching the baby kick out a tiny foot, and then feel that kick in her abdomen.

“Well, that’s you done, my dear.” Dr. Summers helped Mary into a more comfortable position on the sofa. “Now, have you been taking your pills?”

“Yes Dr. Summers.”

“And going for walks?”

“Yes.”

“And how are things going with your men?”

Mary opened her mouth and then closed it. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that for all that Mycroft is the British government in disguise, he’s not always that good at keeping secrets,” Dr. Summers replied. “I know you and John have welcomed Sherlock into your marriage. So, how are your men?”

“I think they’re alright,” Mary said, relaxing just a bit. There was something in the doctor’s tone that made her nervous. “They’re running themselves damn ragged with this work, but I suppose it just has to be done.”

Dr. Summers patted her hand. “Well, good luck to the three of you. That isn’t always easy.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?”

Dr. Summers sighed, her face growing serious. “I’m afraid so. My assistant Becky was in a relationship with two men. But they both left her three years ago, and she’s never recovered.”

Mary swallowed.

“Not that I think that will happen with you three,” Dr. Summers said quickly. “I just hope that you’re going to be careful, Mary. I don’t want you to be betrayed because you love them both.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Mary promised. For the first time, she just wanted Dr. Summers to leave.

“There I go running my mouth,” Dr. Summers sighed. “Don’t listen to me, darling. I just worry too much about my patients.” She settled Mary in. “Now you should get some rest. It’s the best thing you can do for baby right now. Not to mention for you.” She packed away the equipment as Mary watched, and waved goodbye with an apologetic smile before she left.

Mary settled back with a sigh. She wasn’t cross with the Doctor for bringing up that sort of story. God knows she’d seen every kind of ‘arrangement’ under the Sun in the old days. And of course some of them went terribly wrong and people got hurt (and, in some of the more volatile arrangements, murdered), but it wasn’t about the number of people involved, or even the type of involvement. Whether there was love, sex, or both, what kept people happy was being devoted to making the arrangement work for everyone. Mary knew they were all devoted; everything was going to be fine.

But there were still details to work out, so with that thought Mary closed her eyes and continued to think through the intricacies of living at 221b with a baby, a consulting detective, an ex-army doctor turned detective’s partner, and an ex-assassin.

The last thing Mary thought before she fell asleep was that it sounded like the start of a very silly joke. Which was good, because they needed some laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assume that Mycroft's doctor has all the equipment she wants and/or needs.   
This week's gonna be intense, so everyone buckle up!  
Cheers,  
Acme


	37. Planning Montages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BSI go through their plan, and it requires several planning montages.

“ Right,” Greg said as he sat down. “Can you please tell me one more time why we have a pregnant woman as our sniper?”

“Because unfortunately my wife is the best sniper we have,” John said through gritted teeth. He was trying so hard to stay calm, and so hard to keep his hands to himself.

They were all talking through the network once again—at this point, it was too dangerous to meet up in person. In fact, a large part of this plan depended on certain people moving certain ways.

“Do we need a sniper?”

“If we’re expecting Moran to be there, yes,” Irene said, and Mary nodded. “He’s one of the best in the business, and he’s motivated to protect Moriarty by their very odd relationship. He’ll be merciless and fast. We need the same on our side.”

“Are you saying I have a very odd relationship?” Mary asked. Greg saw her eyes flicker to the side, no doubt looking at Sherlock and John. Interesting. Had they really had that conversation, then? Maybe Mycroft was right.

“Darling, we all do. Now let’s move on. What’s next, Detective Inspector?”

Greg consulted his notes. “Sally and Stan are starting to move around the swimming centre. They’ll be ready to go by tonight.” That damn pool where John and Sherlock had nearly died, where Moriarty became real and not just something Sherlock babbled about.

It was unfortunately a great place for an ambush precisely because of that. It had connections to history and mystery, to murder and attempted murder. It was dramatic and stupid. Perfect, in other words.

Fucking psychopaths.

“Isn’t it a bit too perfect?” Molly asked hesitantly. “I mean, if we were picking a showdown instead of a trap, I’d say yes, but it’s not much of a surprise, right?”

“That’s the thing, Miss Hooper. It doesn’t matter if he believes it’s a trap or not. This is the first time we’ve made any truly open moves. He will respond.”

“We’ll get there an hour after Molly and Janine leave their place,” John picked it up. “Mary will be ready, and then we get on with it.”

“Final question, Greg said. “And not that I disapprove of giving other options, but are you all comfortable with the idea that we might be letting Moriarty live?”

When they made it to the pool, Moriarty would get three options. The first was for him to go back to his little farm and work on maths. He could even publish, if he wanted to. But there would be no more network, no more criminality. In fact, he had to watch the entire Web being dismantled. And that was the end—he would be monitored for the rest of his life. The second option was tipping their hand about the algorithm (while protecting Sherlock and Mycroft’s Mum), and promising that no matter what, they’d be able to anticipate him. Greg didn’t like this second option, because the logical thing to do when people said they could predict you was to go absolutely mad and destroy everything. That’s what always happened when he played Monopoly with his cousins.

The third option didn’t sit well with Greg either. He’d killed one man during his career, and that was it. He didn’t “approve of murder”, like Hercule Poirot. But this bloke a) wanted them all dead and b) would let the world burn just to watch that happen. If it came time to doing that, maybe he’d be able to deal with it. Not that he’d be the one doing the killing, but still.

“If I believe that he’s sincere, I’ll let him live,” Molly said quietly. There was no anger in her voice, no hate, but it made Greg shiver anyways.

“We all will,” John said reluctantly. “But no one said anything about physical violence, right? Because I owe that tosser at least a broken nose.”

“We’ll see what we have time for, John,” Mycroft answered. Greg was very aware that it wasn’t a solid “no”.

“Well then.” Greg leaned back. “So do you know…do you know who the plant is at the Met? Because I should make sure that I speak in front of them.” He really didn’t want it to be Sally or Philip or Stan. But who else could it be?

“It’s not someone within your inner circle, Gregory,” Mycroft assured him. “If so we’d be in much graver danger than we currently are. I believe it’s someone who doesn’t have access to your inner team, but they must be in position to hear office chatter.”

Greg shook his head. “I truly don’t know who it could be.”

“That’s very much the point,” Mycroft said sympathetically. “I’ve run background checks on most of your employees, and there’s a few that are more likely, but I don’t know how else to narrow it down without alerting the spy. It doesn’t matter. It will happen.”

“Right.” Greg sighed. “So, Molly, Janine, you ready for the performance of your life?”

Janine looked at him quizzically. “Performance? It’s not that hard to tell a few lies, Greg.”

“No, I mean you two pretending to be a couple. Cheers for that, by the way. I don’t think I could convincingly fake a relationship with either of you.”

Janine looked at Molly. Molly looked at Janine. Greg was starting to feel like he’d missed something.

“Well, that’s a good thing,” Molly said at last. “Otherwise I might have to punch you.”

Greg raised his eyebrows as Janine blushed. “Possessive are we, Molly?”

“Not at all. I mean, she is mine, and I’m hers, but it doesn’t have to be  possessive.  I would just punch you if you tried, because you’d be breaking Mycroft’s heart and mine.”

Sherlock was beaming. “How wonderful. Well then, there’s no need to worry about that angle. Irene, will you be ready then?”

“Absolutely. I can’t wait to get out of this mess. I have a long holiday I owe my Kate.”

“Holidays sound like a splendid idea,” Greg said wistfully. He hadn’t left London in  ages. “ Let’s book flights later, though. This part’s going to be tricky.”

* * *

Molly let her hand slide into Janine’s like it was normal. It would be soon enough. “Darling, I think we should go home.”

No, that didn’t sound right. She needed a better pet name.

“ A chuisle , you read my mind,” Janine answered, drawing her closer.

If she turned her head, Molly knew that she wouldn’t see Irene. She was there, of course, but they had no idea how she would dress or even look. It was part of the plan—Molly and Janine had to act like someone  might  be following them, but not have a clue who it was.

Janine turned her head delicately and frowned.

“What is it, love?” No, not quite right.

“I thought—well, I’m just being paranoid. It’s fine.”

Molly squeezed her hand. “Let’s get back to yours, alright?”

It wasn’t a long walk, but Molly was still relieved when it was over. The minute they got into the apartment Toby wound himself between their legs as Janine took Molly in her arms.

“That was nice,” she murmured into Molly’s ear, gently rocking her. “Mildly terrifying, but nice.”

“Do you reckon we were convincing enough?”

“We don’t have to convince anyone but Irene,” Janine replied. She kissed Molly. “It’s going to be alright, Molls. We’ll be okay.”

Molly bit her lip. She wasn’t sure about this, but then again if she couldn’t trust Janine, who the hell could she trust?

“Jan, I didn’t discuss all of the plan.”

“No? What did you leave out?”

* * *

Irene yanked the wig off—stupid cheap thing, it was incredibly uncomfortable. Then she dialled.

“Miss Adler? This is a bit early, isn’t it?”

“It’s your bitch.” Irene sent a silent apology to Molly. “She’s got a girlfriend.”

“And I care because?”

“Because the girlfriend is Janine Hawkins. Magnussen’s PA.”

Silence.

“I saw them together a couple of times, but I didn’t know that she worked for Magnussen, so it wasn’t important. But if she’s with the bitch now…she might be working with the Holmes’.”

“She seemed loyal at the time.”

“Everyone’s loyal when they’re afraid.”

“True. Well, keep an eye on them. We’ll have to see where this goes.”

* * *

(Four days later) 

“Ah, Molly! Happy Thursday!” Greg beamed at her, looking for all the world like he didn’t know that he was going to be murdered in two days.

“Hello Greg.” Molly smiled back, but she let worry show in her eyes. “Can we talk a bit more privately?”

“Why don’t you just close the door?” Greg offered. It was what Mycroft had suggested.

Molly obeyed and sat down. Her hands were tight around her handbag, and she was trying to keep from shaking all over. She wasn’t having much success. “Well, I just wanted to tell you—you know, Janine’s got some ideas for the plan.”

“Really?” Greg nodded. “That’s good. Cutting it a bit close, aren’t we?”

“She did her best,” Molly protested. “Getting that kind of information wasn’t easy, even for her.”

“And the others?”

“They’re ready to move. We’re going to meet where…where Carl Powers died. Ten o’clock tonight.”

“I’ll be there,” Greg promised. He lowered his voice. “Are we sure that’s the best place to go? Isn’t it a bit obvious?”

“He won’t think of it,” Molly replied. “It’s too obvious. That way we can get everyone together to make our final preparations.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Greg finally spotted him. Young, a constable, not-so-new to the Yard after two years. He was standing by the water cooler, fiddling with his hearing aids. So it was a bug of some sort.

Greg wanted to throttle him just a bit, scare the life out of the spy that would have cost him his life, but now wasn’t the time. Besides, he’d promised Mycroft first go.

“Alright. I’ll be there. Do you want me to bring any coffee?”

That got a smile out of Molly. “I don’t think hot beverages are allowed in there,” she said as she got up. “I’ll see you later, then?”

“Promise,” Greg said firmly. “It’s time to end this once and for all.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think the plan's going to work?   
:)  
Cheers,  
Acme


	38. Baker Street Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's falling into place...including places they shouldn't be.

Mrs. Hudson beamed as she watched Lily smile as she danced with Harry. The two had grown close over the last couple of months, and it was good to see the young girl laughing with a friend. They weren’t in love—Lily was far too much of a lesbian for that. But they trusted each other. Perhaps in another setting they wouldn’t have made friends, but here in this basement they’d bonded.

Martha wished she could take credit for that.

“Martha!” Lily cried out when Harry dipped her dramatically. “Harry, stop being a prat, Martha’s here.”

Harry immediately straightened Lily up. “Hi Martha. Is it time to go?”

“Not quite.” Martha put down the plate of scones. “I thought you might like something before you head out.”

Predictably, they both started to devour the scones. They were the only two who liked orange-cranberry so much.

“Are Ty and the others already out?” Lily asked through a bite. She swallowed and blushed when Martha frowned at her. “Sorry, Martha.”

“Yes. Ty and Sasha just called in, actually—they’ve done a sweep and now they and the others will make sure that the pool is surrounded. No one will get through.”

Harry frowned. “Shouldn’t we be out with them, then?”

“You were both asleep when they left.” Martha ruffled Harry’s freshly-cut hair. “This might be a long night—there’s no telling when it will happen. I don’t know that Moriarty’s the most punctual bloke.”

Lily nodded. “Right, thanks for the scones, but we should get going.” Her hands were suddenly trembling, and Martha fought the urge to take her hand. Lily didn’t like being touched. 

“Is something wrong, dear? Did I put too much orange in again?”

“No, not at all. They’re lovely. Can I—could we come round some time later to have more?”

“What do you mean, later?”

“After all of this is over,” Lily answered. Her eyes were shadowy now, and Mrs. Hudson got alarmed. “You know, when we’re back on the street.”

Martha narrowed her eyes. “Well, there’s no rush. You can stay as long as you want.”

“What?”

Martha sighed. “Oh dear. I knew I should have spoken to all of you sooner. Come on, sit down for a moment.”

Lily and Harry obeyed.

“I’ve never been homeless,” Martha started. “Not even when my husband was arrested for murder. So I don’t know what you feel like, being out on the street. All I know is that I want to help you, all of you, try and find your way out of that.”

“You do realize you can’t singlehandedly solve the housing crisis, right Martha?” Harry said awkwardly. “We appreciate all you’ve done, but this can’t just go away.”

“I can’t solve all of it, you’re right,” Martha agreed. “But I can certainly work on the problem. I’ve been doing bits and pieces while you lot have been busy—there hasn’t been much for me to do hands on. I’ve worked out some things, like providing references for jobs and figuring out better access to medical care, and of course the flats will still be available.”

Lily was staring at her in pure shock. “They will?”

“Mycroft and I have already agreed on that front,” Martha said gently. “He and Sherlock have been trying to work through this problem for a while, but they get a bit caught up in the theoretical. They need people to help with the practical, and so I’m going to work with them on this. We just need to figure out what would work best in terms of help.”

Harry snorted. “You could ask us.”

“Of course we’re going to ask you,” Martha said, shocked. “The last thing we want to do is create something useless. I just wanted to get some of the ground work done before we came to you all, so that you would be in a position to help with the…oh, experiment sounds so clinical, but I suppose that’s exactly what this is.” She looked at their startled faces and winced. “I should have told you before now, I’m so sorry. I just—I never said you had to leave, so I thought you knew that you could stay.”

Lily leapt off of Harry’s lap and threw her arms around Martha. Martha caught her, startled as she began to sob. She’d never seen Lily cry.

“It’s alright, sweet. It’s going to be alright. You can stay here with me and the others. This is your home until you find a better one.”

“I think it would be hard to do that,” Lily sniffled. “But thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now go on.” Martha grabbed their coats, trying to hide her now-trembling hands. “Get out there, and let’s get this finished.”

With any luck, Harry and Lily would be nowhere near the front line. If they had a bit of extra luck, none of them would be. The plan was to keep Moriarty within the walls of the pool, after all. And if Martha knew psychopaths, Moriarty wouldn’t bring many people. His ego wouldn’t allow it.

Martha did know psychopaths .

That wouldn’t stop her worrying.

* * *

Mary paced around the basement flat. With the trap to go off that night, there was no car to be spared to take her for a walk, so she was going to do 2,000 steps around the flat while she waited for Dr. Summers. It helped burn off a bit of the nervous energy, but she was relieved when her phone went off.

Delayed in Yorkshire. Becky will examine you in an hour. She’s a nurse, training in obstetrics. Dr. Summers.

Mary wasn’t sure how she became surrounded by people who signed their texts, but here she was.

She’d met Becky once before, at the last checkup. She was a quiet girl, but she moved with confidence. It was a good approach for a nurse. Mary should know; she pretended to be one long enough.

After the 2,000 steps, Mary sat down, tapping her feet (although she couldn’t see them). A pang went through her abdomen and she winced, pressing a hand to the spot. “I know you’re impatient to be born, darling,” she told her daughter seriously. “Mama and Daddy and…and Sherlock are very impatient to meet you too. But we’ve both got to wait a little bit longer, alright? I don’t want you to get born too early.”

That didn’t seem to help though, because by the time Becky got there twenty minutes later, Mary had felt two more pangs. They weren’t cramps, she told Becky firmly.

“That’s just not it. It feels more like period pain.”

“You mean cramps.” Becky patted her hand. “Don’t fret, Mary. I’ll check you over.”

Mary relaxed as much as she could, her hands clenched into fists as Becky examined her.

“I think you’re just having Braxton-Hicks contractions,” Becky said at last, removing her gloves. “Don’t worry. The baby won’t be coming today. Which is good.”

“Yeah, that would be bad timing,” Mary said vaguely. She wasn’t sure how much Becky knew, but she certainly wasn’t going to put the girl in danger by telling her more.

“It certainly would be.”

Mary looked up in surprise and found a gun in her face.

“Come on now, Mrs. Watson,” Becky said. She wasn’t quiet anymore. “It’s time for you to get on stage.” 

When Dr. Summers arrived an hour later at the proper time, she found a messy flat, no sign of a struggle…and no sign of Mary. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of chapters got cut out in the final draft about Mrs. Hudson and the members of the Homeless Network, and I'm planning on writing a separate story in this verse dealing with that--it deserves its own story.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	39. Poolcide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big showdown happens, back at the pool where Carl died, now with more people and so much more on the line.

There was no time, and John knew it. They had to get to the pool at the right time, they had to continue on with the plan. No doubt Moriarty was playing their game—CCTV footage of Sebastian Moran entering the building confirmed it.

The show had to go on, no matter what. No matter that his and Sherlock’s pregnant Mary was missing, and they had no sniper. More important than that, Moriarty had  leverage . Losing Mary and the baby for pretend had been devastating. Losing them for real would burn a hole into him and Sherlock that could never be repaired.

John had his gun at the ready and his head held high. Nothing could change. They had to finish Moriarty tonight.

There just might be more bloodshed than they thought.

Sherlock took his hand as they walked towards the pool, and John held on tightly. They were together this time, they had their friends.  Friends protect people.  It had to be fine.

John wouldn’t be able to take another person he loved dying in front of him. 

* * *

Mycroft watched first John and Sherlock, then Greg arrive. They were fifteen minutes early; they’d let Moriarty get in first (well, his sniper at least, but if Moran went in then Moriarty would be close by). Some would consider that losing tactical advantage, but Mycroft knew this game. Moriarty had been cheated of his victory the last time by a cheap trick. He wasn’t the sort to use one in retaliation—it was too much irony. Whether Moriarty had been in there for eight hours or eight minutes, the conversation would be the same.

Mycroft tried to control the trembling of his hands. It was bad enough that he’d been so stupid as to let Mary Watson get kidnapped. It was even worse to know that she could already be dead _(god no, you can’t think that way, even if Sherlock and John aren’t here to read it in your face)_, and knowing that the man that he loved was going in there armed with nothing but a gun and a good conscience reached the limit of his coping skills.

Molly and Janine came into view, and Mycroft held his breath. It was time to do what he’d been dreading, what Anthea had been doing for the last hour on his behalf.

It was time to draw his attention to the cameras inside the pool.

* * *

Janine wasn’t sure whether Molly wanted her to hold her hand, but she was doing it anyways.

Because Mary was missing. Because John and Sherlock were barely holding it together. Because Mycroft had cried when they left. Because Mrs. Hudson promised she’d have enough scones to feed an army when they got back.

Because this strange little family she’d somehow become a part of could all fall apart tonight. It would only take one death, one missing person on their group calls, and everything would break.

The worst part for Janine was that she wasn’t sure who would be worst. Shouldn’t it be obvious, even among people you loved, who you’d want most to survive? But it wasn’t. No loss was acceptable. Those were the worst kind of times. 

* * *

Greg had never wished so dearly that he wasn’t a policeman.

If he was a civilian he wouldn’t have stopped John and Sherlock from going on a rampage through London the moment they found out Mary was gone. He could arrange for the entirety of the Baker Street Irregulars to descend on the pool and take no prisoners. He could ignore John’s gun and Sherlock’s knives, and he wouldn’t have to wonder where on earth Irene had disappeared to. He could go in himself and shoot the bastard dead, and to hell with ultimatums and playing games with psychopaths.

But he was a policeman. He was charged with upholding the law, even when it was family, even when he knew it would be  just  to let Moriarty die. He had a job to do.

Right before he opened the door, heading in first because that’s what you did when you were with the police—you protected the civilians—he made himself a promise. He wasn’t going to let his first job interfere with his second, just as important job. And that was to keep everyone safe. 

* * *

Sherlock had never forgotten what the pool sounded like.

Visually it looked mostly the same, except there was no John in a stupid parka and no creaking door. It smelled the same, of course it did—most pools smelled alike.

But the sound of their footsteps, shoes clacking where they weren’t meant to step, more people than last time but still echoing the same…that hadn’t changed.

He had two knives, one tucked into each sleeve, and he was going to use them if necessary. His love and his child were most likely here, in danger, and getting them out was his only priority. Moriarty could escape if he wanted.

That brought Sherlock up short. For one thing, the game had always mattered so much, especially with Moriarty. It would be inconvenient if he escaped, but it would also be a blow to his ego. Suddenly that didn’t matter. Because the other thing Sherlock realized was that he’d thought of John and Mary’s child as  his  for the first time ever.

Then new footsteps came on the scene—one pair confident, the other dragging—and Sherlock shoved that thought away. 

* * *

Molly hadn’t been sure how she would react to seeing Jim again. She knew fear and hate would be a part of it; anger was logical.

What she hadn’t expected to feel as he stepped out from between the lockers, an arm around a bound Mary Watson’s throat, was relief.

It was twisted and unhealthy, but hell, he was  there in front of her. There was no more waiting, no more anticipation. Somehow Molly had expected this all along. Somehow, it all had to end with them together.

Jim’s eyes latched onto her. “Molly! It’s been a while.”

“Not long enough,” Molly snapped. “It’s not much of a victory, though, is it Jim?”

Moriarty shrugged, tightening his grip on Mary. “I don’t think so. After all, I knew we’d end up like this eventually.” His eyes fixed on Sherlock. “I didn’t think you’d bring all the dead weight this time.”

“They’re the reason I’m here at all.”

Molly risked a quick look at Sherlock, and felt terror creep up her spine, because there was hatred and fury so strong in his eyes that it looked like it would burn Moriarty alive.

Moriarty still looked calm. “Perhaps. I got here all by myself, you see. Not used to needing help.”

“You’ve got a world-wide network of help, you hypocritical twat!”

The look in Moriarty’s eyes when he turned to her was a familiar one, but Molly wasn’t scared. She brought her hands up to her chest anyways, protecting nothing, grabbing something.

* * *

Mary tried to free herself from Jim’s grip again. It was no use—the drugs, carefully measured to not affect the baby but more than enough to make her drowsy, saw to that. But it was enough to distract Jim from Molly, to let Molly slide something into her palm. She’d taught Janine that move. Good to see it passed on.

Sick with fright, Mary winced when Jim tightened his arm across her throat again, just to see her choke. John and Sherlock were watching her face so carefully, and she wanted to scream at them to run, to get as far away as they could. She wasn’t worth this hesitation.

But their daughter…yes, their baby was worth it. So Mary stayed quiet as Jim started to speak again.

“Well, might as well get on with things, right? It’s very simple—I’m willing to let you live if you all go very far away and let me get on with things. I know that’s unlikely for you… angelic types, so I’ll give you another option. I’ll let  one  of you live beyond tonight to try and stop me again, and I'll kill the rest painlessly.” Jim moved his free hand to Mary’s belly, and that time she tried to twist away for real but it didn’t work. “I’ll even let there be two of you if you decide to save this bitch.”

“Why would we trust you?”

“Why would I trust you with your offers?” Moriarty snorted. “Mrs. Watson’s told me all about them, trying to buy herself some time, I suppose. Go and do maths in a cottage again, under the Iceman’s supervision? Dull, dull, dull. But I actually believe you’d let that happen. Cold blooded murder isn’t in you—and neither is breaking deals.”

“Your life is valueless,” Janine said, and Mary had never heard her speak so coldly. “We don’t have to care what happens to you. We just have to stop what you do.”

* * *

John wasn’t sure that Janine was right. He cared what happened to Moriarty—one second of hesitation, one opportunity, and he was going to put a bullet through Moriarty’s skull. A real one, this time.

Murder’s easy.

Trying to spot the sniper was pointless—there were a few places that would work, but it wouldn’t be enough to take a risk, and they weren’t sure where Irene was hiding either, and drawing attention to her would be her death warrant.

Moriarty sighed. “Ah, you must be Magnussen’s girl.”

“No, I’m Janine Hawkins.” Janine held her head high, with no flinch from her. “And I’m about done dealing with sodding psychopaths.”

“It must be so difficult, being ordinary in this game.” Moriarty shook his head, looking sympathetic. “The four of you are so simple—how on earth do you pretend to keep up?”

“We know that people like you don’t understand the ordinary,” John snarled. “Last time proved that."

All the joking went out of Moriarty’s face. “You fucking ignorant, insignificant…you have no idea what I’ve figured out. No idea of what I’m capable of.” 

* * *

Greg knew better than to stoop to Moriarty’s level. It was no good to taunt back, because that was wasting time, time better spent trying to get out of here. You don’t engage with a situation you want to end.

But he couldn’t help it.

“Actually, Anthony James, we do know.”

All the suffering of the last four years was soothed by Moriarty’s violent flinch.

“We’re the ones that figured all of it out,” Greg went on. He saw Molly brace herself out of the corner of his eye, and knew he only had a few seconds. “We found your name, your sodding code, and all your precious network. We found you out because no matter what you do, you’re still  human .”

The smile Moriarty gave was empty of life.

* * *

The knife was in Molly’s hand now, small as her palm, big enough to do some damage.

“Human? My dear Inspector, of course I’m human.” Moriarty’s teeth were bared, and his arm was loosening around Mary. “But I don’t have to be constrained by that. This whole world is at my fingertips, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

It was true, Molly realized. There was no reason for red dots this time. With Mary and her unborn child as a hostage, he had control of all of them. No one could make a move without endangering all of them. It was only logical.

So Molly raised her hand and, with a wild scream, charged Moriarty.

* * *

Irene watched from the exercise room overlooking the pool as Moriarty let go of Mary Watson in pure shock, as he and Molly went into the pool together, her knife digging into his shoulder. Before they hit the water, a shot rang out.

And Irene looked across and saw Moran, standing on top of one of the lockers on the other side of the pool from his targets, perched even more improbably than she was. His face was impassive.

That look was still on his face when he died five seconds later, Irene’s first bullet striking him squarely in the head, the second one hitting him in the heart.

It was Irene’s first mercy killing, the only one she would ever do. She didn’t have much of a heart, but it would have been too much, even for her, to see Sebastian Moran’s expression when Molly Hooper was pulled out of the pool by a frantic Janine, unharmed but soaked in bloody water from the gunshot wound that killed James Moriarty. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HE'S FUCKING DEAD.   
The amount of time I agonized about how to kill him doesn't bear thinking about. With everyone who rightly deserved a crack at him...in the end, I felt like it was only fair for it to be an accident. That would piss him off most.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	40. The Sign of Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With death comes new life, and this new life is long awaited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, here is a baby to make up for it!

John crouched beside his wife, ripping at the ropes that bound her with Molly’s knife. Once the last were gone, he leaned his forehead against hers for one moment, clinging to her hand. The pool fell away from them. They were safe, and it was really over this time.

Then Mary cried out in shock and pain, and John snapped back into danger mode.

“Love, what’s—”

“My water just broke.”

“Bloody fucking hell.” John glared at Mary’s stomach. “You’ve got some interesting timing, young lady.”

Molly came over, soaked, with blood on her hands and a smile on her face. “Don’t worry, Mary. He’s definitely dead.”

“Wonderful. My child is still coming.”

“Oh, we can figure that out.”

“How?!” John gasped. They had no car, there was a dead body not five feet away, and Sherlock was helping Irene drag another dead body down from the lockers.

“We just took down Moriarty,” Molly answered. “There’s no way in hell we can’t have a baby.”

Molly did have a point. John met Sherlock’s eyes. “I think we’re going to have to call your brother.”

It took less than ten minutes for Anthea and a crew of men and women of vague nationalities and ages to come in three black cars. Two of them went to Irene, and shooed Sherlock away. The rest split off except Anthea, who knelt beside Moriarty. As John watched with something closer to relief than horror, Anthea examined Moriarty’s wrist, and then drew a knife and slit his throat so deeply it nearly severed his head.

“Fucking hell.” John helped Mary to her feet, supporting her as she gasped with a hand on her stomach. “Hope the little one takes a bit more time. I really don’t want that to be her first sight.”

It wasn’t. Mary’s contractions held steady, if agonizing, as they sped to St. Bart’s. Sherlock and John each sat on one side of Mary, holding her hands.

Mary was barely walking when they got to St. Bart’s, and to John’s shock Sherlock swept her up in his arms. “Get the door, John!”

And then it was the hustle and bustle of getting Mary into a wheelchair, getting her into a bed, pulling off her clothes and getting her into a hospital gown…it felt so familiar to John. He’d delivered babies before, even as a surgeon. He’d watched this procedure, done this procedure dozens of times. But it was always from the doctor’s position.

Now it was from the anxious father to be’s position, and John wasn’t quite sure how to deal with that. Both of his hands shook as he moved the pillows to support Mary. When he put them on her shoulders, larger hands covered his.

Sherlock looked down at him, eyes wide but still so certain. “You’re going to do fine. Both of you.”

John didn’t care that there were other people in the room. He leaned his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “All three of us,” he corrected him. That made him laugh. “That’s the real signs of three. Are you psychic, Sher?”

“We can figure that out after our daughter is born,  if you don’t mind. ” Mary started breathing hard. “I need your help right now.”

So the labour went by. Mary alternately breathed and swore through her contractions, and Sherlock kept feeding her ice chips between sending rapid fire texts to the rest of their family. “I don’t think they should come yet, should they?” He asked after the first hour. “It’s going to be at least another two hours at this rate.”

Mary grabbed a pillow and threw it at him, immediately leaning back with a moan.

“Timing, Sherlock,” John snapped, but he couldn’t quite hide a grin.

Sherlock was nearly correct. It was another hour before Mary could start pushing, and it was fifty long minutes after that until the doctor said “alright Mary, one more big push—”

And Mary screamed and pushed, and then someone else was screaming, and John picked her up before the doctor could.

Their baby was small and wrinkly, with a caul of vernix over her head. She was squalling through it, and looked rather like a Dementor.

“She’s beautiful,” Sherlock whispered.

John agreed.

“Excuse me,” the doctor said politely, “but I need to do some tests on your baby.”

“Right, of course.” John let go of his daughter reluctantly, and crouched next to Mary. The afterbirth was proceeding properly, and Mary leaned back against the pillows and let it happen. Her skin was shiny with sweat, her hair damp, and her thighs were bloody.

“You’re so beautiful,” John whispered, and pressed a kiss against her forehead, trying and failing to keep tears from falling on her face.

Sherlock had shed his coat long ago, and his shirt was ruffled, his hair wild. John took his hand. “Well done, dear.”

Sherlock was trembling all over, and John was alarmed to see the tears in his eyes. “It’s alright, Sherlock. She’s here, everything’s fine.”

To prove his point, the squalling (but much cleaner) bundle that was their daughter was brought over by the smiling doctor. “Excellent scores,” she mumbled. “She’s doing very well.”

Mary took the bundle and cuddled their baby close. She opened the flap of her gown and guided the baby to her breast. To John’s relief, she latched on well, and the room fell silent for a moment. Mary closed her eyes, holding the child close.

“What are you going to name her?” Sherlock asked.

John grinned. “Mary? What do you think?” He put a hand gently around his daughter’s head. She was so small, it almost fit into his palm.

“I think the name we chose is brilliant,” Mary answered. Her eyes were still closed, and John could see the exhaustion in her body. “Rachel.”

John glanced at Sherlock. "We wouldn’t be here without her, after all.”

A rare, tender smile passed over Sherlock’s face. He bent down and kissed Mary’s forehead, and then little Rachel’s. “It’s a wonderful name. What about middle ones?”

John blinked. “Er…”

Mary actually laughed. “I think we stopped picking names after the first name. Any ideas, Sherlock?”

Sherlock thought about it, absentmindedly stroking Mary’s hair. “I think she should be Rachel Martha,” he answered at last. “After all, she is John’s mother in every way that matters.”

“If we’re doing mothers, we should do Rachel Martha Victoria,” Mary answered. “Rachel Martha Victoria.”

“And your mother?” Sherlock asked.

“I never had one,” Mary answered. “Well, I must have at some point, but I was raised by two men. They never told me her name. Maybe we could save their names in case she wants them some day. Or for another child. Once I forget most of this night.”

Rachel seemed to be finished nursing, and she opened big blue eyes and looked up at John. John’s breath caught in his throat. They were his eyes, the eyes he’d inherited from his grandfather.

“John, hold out your arms.”

John had held dozens of babies, and he knew the proper procedure for newborns. He knew what he was doing, but holding his daughter in his arms felt terrifyingly, beautifully new. Rachel shifted in her blanket, and her little head rested against his chest.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, “come over here.”

When Sherlock was in front of him John sat on the bed, careful not to jostle Rachel or Mary. Sherlock seemed to understand, because he knelt, and the three of them leaned into each other in a tired, relieved embrace. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, and the hospital gown was scratchy against John’s cheek and Sherlock had to crane his neck, but it felt right. They were a family, bound by this little baby, by the terrifying ordeals they’d suffered, by the love that came out of extraordinary circumstances.

It didn’t last, of course, because there was a commotion outside, and John could hear Greg telling a few people off for being so loud, and Mary looked sharply at Sherlock. But Sherlock just grinned and kissed Mary lightly on the lips, just in time for Molly to step into the room. 

* * *

Molly stopped in her tracks, and Janine crashed into her. “Molls, what—”

“Bloody hell,” Molly muttered. She glared at Sherlock. “You three couldn’t have waited another day?”

She’d never seen Sherlock Holmes quite so thoroughly confused. “I beg your pardon?” he stammered, rising from Mary and John’s sides.

Molly rolled her eyes. “Well now I owe Greg ten quid.”

“What?!” Greg pushed Molly gently out of the way, his eyes gleaming with delight. “Are you three together, then? For sure?”

“Did you  bet  on us?” Mary snarled.

“Of course we did. It was only a matter of time,” Greg said, nodding sagely. Then his eyes fell on the baby. “Oh my days, isn’t she wonderful?”

“Her name is Rachel,” Sherlock said, just a little stiffly.

Molly was already rummaging through her bag, grateful that she’d thought to pack it earlier that night. And grateful for the strong soap that had removed any trace of blood from her body. She pulled out the blanket triumphantly.

“Janine and I made it,” she whispered. She moved to the bedside. “Can I?”

Mary helped Rachel gently out of the hospital blanket and into Molly’s, swaddling her expertly. “How are you, Molly? Janine?”

“We’re fine,” Janine answered. She was holding on tight to Molly--hadn't let go since they left the pool. “And you?”

“It’s over,” Mary answered. “We can get back to chasing ordinary psychopaths.”

“Not for at least a few weeks you’re not,” Greg said firmly.

“Since when are you in charge of us?” John asked.

“Dating the British Government does allow for some privileges. You’re all hereby under house arrest. John, you and your wife and your husband are confined to 221b Baker Street.”

“Sherlock’s not technically my husband.”

“Was I the only one who was listening to Sherlock’s speech at the wedding?” Greg asked. “Because that sounded like vows to me. To both of you. It just took you several more months to realize.”

Molly giggled.

“Actually, not quite that long.” Sherlock took John’s hand. “The three of us have been together for several days. I think you might have lost, Detective Inspector.”

“No, because we bet on the announcement, so I still win. Anyways, Molly, Janine, you’re sentenced to Janine’s flat for three days, after which you will be sentenced to Sussex.”

“Now hold on,” John interjected. “You’re not going to stop the godmothers from seeing their goddaughter, will you?”

“During those three days you may make supervised visits to 221b’s inhabitants,” Greg said, unperturbed. “But there is to be no mystery solving other than the best way to get baby to sleep. Is all of that clear?”

“And I’m assuming you’re placing yourself under house arrest as well?”

“Yeah, I plan on spending the next three weeks in Tahiti with Mycroft, because it’s the only bloody way that he’s going to be calm and not try to control the world.”

“That’s so lovely,” Molly soothed him. “Wait, godmothers?”

“If you want to,” John answered. “You’re both brilliant. Will you?”

“Of course.” Janine knelt beside Mary. “Look at her. She’s got Mary’s ears for sure. What about a godfather?”

“Well, it was going to be the man who’s currently put us all on house arrest,” Sherlock said calmly. “But if he’s going to do that and then skive off to Tahiti…”

Greg’s eyes widened. “I didn’t think—you really want me?”

“We’re planning on being there for her.” Sherlock touched Rachel’s cheek. “But she needs guardians just in case.”

“And she needs people to spoil her rotten and buy her candy,” Mary scolded. “Sherlock, we just fought tonight so that we didn’t have to worry about that too much. Don’t be so negative.”

Sherlock looked to John, but John just grinned. “She’s right, Sherlock.”

“I think we’d better give the parents some room,” Greg told Janine and Molly. “By the way, Mycroft really wanted to come, but he’s making sure that every last one of Moriarty’s plans is going up in smoke. He’s going to drop by tomorrow with your parents, Sherlock.”

“Wonderful.”

Molly slipped an arm around Janine’s waist. “I think Greg’s right, my darling. We’ll speak to you all tomorrow, okay? And bring Rachel’s other gift; I couldn’t bring it into a hospital.”

John looked alarmed. “Is it a kitten?”

“Why on earth do you think it’s a kitten?” Molly asked, a bit shocked.

“You love cats and Toby’s about to be a father, isn’t he?”

“We don’t know how many kittens there are going to be yet,” Molly said. And she wouldn’t give a newborn a kitten anyways, whether there were three parents or two. It would be at  least  six months before Rachel got a kitten. “No, it’s something else. It’s not alive.”

“Sort of,” Janine said thoughtfully.

Now Sherlock looked alarmed. Molly winked at him.

"And before that nonsense starts, we're going to say goodnight," Greg said firmly. Hesitantly, he reached out. "Although...maybe if everyone behaves the godparents could hold the baby?"

Molly watched as Mary laughed, exhaustion leaving her face for just a moment as she held her daughter out to Greg. "That's a splendid idea, Greg. She needs to meet the rest of the Baker Street Irregulars, after all." 

"Oh, we are calling ourselves that!" Janine clapped her hands. "Told you they'd give in eventually, Molls." 

"That was Molly's idea?" John asked. "I thought you came up with all the chat stuff." 

"Molly named the group," Janine said, looking at Molly proudly. "My sweetheart's very clever."   
  


"And ordinary," Molly said. "Perfectly ordinary."   
  


For the first time in all her life, as she cradled her goddaughter to her chest, Molly did think ordinary was perfect. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rachel Martha Victoria... Watson-Holmes, of course!   
The next two chapters are actually going to be explicit love scenes, one between Molly and Janine, and one between Sherlock, John, and Mary. The smut-free epilogue will be up after!   
Cheers,  
Acme
> 
> P.S. The caul of vernix has some significance, actually. Children born with that are said to have the gift of second sight in some cultures. Rachel's certainly going to have some keen eyes!


	41. To the Cottage (Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Janine head for the cottage, and they fall into bed.

The drive to Sussex was both not long enough and way too long.

Janine had seen the cottage before, but Molly hadn’t, so she spent part of the drive wondering what it would look like. She’d seen a couple of pictures, but they were of the overgrown garden, the beehives, and the view of the sea. They were beautiful, but that wasn’t enough to build a picture of the inside.

When she ran out of ideas, the nervousness started up again. Janine was holding her hand as she drove, and Molly clung to it like a lifeline. She’d done this before. Holding hands, driving together, and now even kissing was on the list. But she’s never had sex with a woman before.

Molly wanted to, oh  God  she wanted to. Sex was never a huge part of her life, but this was an urgent, aching want. She almost suggested they try last night, when they were all through with packing and they’d said their goodbyes. Janine’s flat was familiar, and Toby could be kept out of the room easily enough.

But Molly held back, because she wasn’t ready.

Was she going to be ready now?

Janine opened Molly’s door and helped her down. The rental car was stupidly tall, and Molly wanted to make a joke about that but she got distracted.

“Oh Janine, it’s lovely.”

March might not be the best of times to appreciate English beauty, but the cottage seemed to fit right in with its surroundings. Made of weathered stone, surrounded by wild plants with small windows, it seemed like a perfect retreat.

“Do you want to see the ocean?”

Molly nodded, grateful for the delay (or was she annoyed? She wasn’t sure). They walked down a path that wound around the cottage and behind it, straight to the cliff’s edge.

Molly closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. The smell of the sea was familiar despite it being so long since she’d last been to a beach. The sun was trying in vain to come out above them, the pattern of clouds above the waves creating an interesting pattern.

Janine put an arm around her shoulders. “Well, that’s wonderful. Want to see the inside now?”

“Honestly…” Molly gathered her courage. “I think we should go to the bedroom right away.”

Janine looked at her with dark eyes. “You’ve always had good ideas, Molls.”

* * *

Molly got a very quick view of the rest of the cottage—tidy rooms with basic furniture, the rooms light with thick curtains pulled back, but she wasn’t really paying attention. She was focused on the last room.

The bedroom—their bedroom, Molly realized—was just as tidy as the rest of the cottage. There was a soft gray duvet on the bed, covered by half a dozen pillows. There’s a dresser against the wall with a mirror, drawers beneath each side of the bed, a closet in the corner and curtains drawn against the pale light from outdoors.

There was nothing in there to suggest a person actually lived there. It felt more like the room was waiting for them.

Janine put her bag down at the bottom of the bed, and Molly copied her.

“Do you want to eat lunch?” Janine asked.

“Honestly?” Molly looked at her. “Not really. I want—I want to make love to you.”

It sounded so old-fashioned, but it was how her mum and dad always referred to sex. And she did love Janine, so it fit, didn’t it?

Janine grinned at her. “Well then. I suppose it’s not quite eleven yet. Might as well work up an appetite.” Her face fell. “That was the worst line I’ve ever said. Please don’t tell anyone.”

Molly giggled as she unbuttoned her shirt. “I promise.”

It was easy to strip down to her underwear; it wasn’t the first time she’d done that in front of another woman. But Molly unclasped her bra more slowly, took off her knickers even slower.

It was the first time in her adult life she’d been naked in front of a woman.

Janine was already lying on the bed, turned on her side to face Molly. Molly joined her on the bed carefully, lying so they weren’t quite touching but they could if they wanted to. And Molly wanted to so badly, but she didn’t know how.

Janine placed a hand on Molly’s cheek. “I haven’t done this in a really long time.”

“Had sex or just had sex with a woman?”

“Just had sex with a woman,” Janine replied. “I mean—I haven’t had sex at all in about a year, but I haven’t been with a woman since 2010.”

“I’ve never been with a woman at all,” Molly answered. “I didn’t really know I liked women until I was twenty-five, and that woman was married and very, very straight, so I never said anything.” She took a deep breath. “Janine, I’m not sure I’m going to know how to make it good for you.”

Janine pulled her in for a kiss. “How about we figure out how to make it good for both of us. Together. That sound alright?”

Molly answered her with a kiss, moving a bit closer. She could feel the heat of Janine’s body, their knees touching, hands in each other’s hair. This was familiar. This was fine, even with no clothes.

That seemed wildly funny to her all of a sudden, and she laughed into Janine’s mouth.

“What’s so funny?” Janine asked, but she was grinning too.

“I don’t know. I just felt like laughing.”

A mischievous look came into Janine’s eyes. “You feel like laughing, do you?” She ran her fingers over Molly’s bare ribs. Molly squeaked.

Janine’s face lit up, and before Molly could protest she felt two hands digging into her ribcage. Giggling, Molly tried to push Janine’s hands away, but they were fast and Molly was  stupidly  ticklish. Janine’s hand moved to her stomach, and Molly gasped as her fingers ran over her belly button. When Janine rubbed more firmly over it, Molly’s giggle turned into a moan.

It surprised both of them, and Janine actually removed her hands. Molly was flushing, and she knew the red was probably going down to her chest. “Sorry,” she managed.

“Sorry? What are you sorry for?”

“I didn’t think—I didn’t know that would be arousing,” Molly stumbled out.

Janine’s pupils were dilating. “Sorry? Molly, that’s  wonderful.”

“ It is?”

Janine turned Molly onto her back and climbed on top of her, straddling Molly’s hips. “Oh darling, that’s something I love to do to someone. I wasn’t sure how I was ever going to ask you, and you just—you  are . It’s gorgeous, Molls.”

“Thank you?” Molly looked up at her. “Do you want to…I mean, do you want to do that instead?” Not that she’d be opposed, honestly.

Janine shook her head. “Not this time. Maybe next round?”

“Sure.”

Janine leaned down and kissed Molly, and they stayed just like that for a while. Kissing Janine was splendid, Molly reflected again, and kissing like this—in private, with the past behind them and the future ahead, where they could take their time—well, it was pretty close to perfect.

Eventually though, Molly grew bolder. She let her hands move from Janine’s hair down her back, tracing the soft skin, feeling her muscles tighten and relax as they moved together. Janine started to kiss Molly’s neck, but she stopped with a giggle as Molly traced her shoulder blades.

Molly grinned. “Are you ticklish too?” She moved her fingers more deliberately, and Janine laughed, retaliating by nipping at Molly’s neck until she squealed. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop!”

“Good.” Janine’s hands were moving too, and they started to trace Molly’s breasts. The touch made Molly tremble; it didn’t tickle, exactly, but it made her whimper as it sent tingles down her spine.

Janine bent her head and started to kiss and nibble at her left breast, pinching her right nipple as she did so. Molly gasped, trying to prop herself up to reciprocate, but with one smooth move Janine trapped her hands between their legs.

“Sorry, love. Can I—can I—”

“Yeah,” Molly gasped. “Of course, that’s…that’s fine, angel.” _There, that was it. That was what to call her. _

Janine kissed her, her pupils nearly blown. “I’m going to take care of you, Molly,” she crooned. And then she proceeded to do just that, sliding down so she could pay proper attention to Molly’s breasts.

It didn’t take long for Molly to start squirming as Janine teased her. She moved her mouth from one side to the other and kept up the trembly tracing with her hands. If her hands were free Molly would have tried to—well, did she really want Janine to stop? No, it wasn’t that, it was just so  much …

Eventually Janine’s hands wandered lower, tracing over Molly’s sides and stomach, making her squirm with ticklish sensations again. Janine distracted her by sucking firmly on her nipples, and Molly threw her head back with a gasp of need. “Jan,  please …”

And then Janine’s hand moved between her legs, and pressed, and Molly gasped aloud.

Then Janine started to pull away.

“Hold on, what’s wrong?” Molly asked. Then she winced. “Sorry, I just trim down there, I don’t shave—”

“That’s more than I do,” Janine said quietly. She looked nervous for the first time. “I haven’t in months. Just give me ten minutes, I can go shave—”

With her distracted, Molly was able to free her hands and pull herself enough to roll them over. She grabbed Janine’s hands and pinned them under her knees. “Don’t be stupid,” she told Janine. “If you don’t want to, it doesn’t bother me at all. Now it’s my turn, and I’m not letting you up until you promise to stop being silly.” Then, gathering her courage, she added  “and  you have to beg me to let you go.”

Janine blinked. Then she smirked.

“Do your worst, Molls.”

Molly bent to kiss her as hard as she could, squeezing Janine’s breasts firmly. Janine moaned into her mouth, and Molly fought to keep a smirk off her own face.

Guessing that Janine might like slightly different things than she did, Molly tried for a firmer touch, longer kisses, and soon Janine was squirming. Molly watched her intently as she teased her, but Janine held strong for quite a while.

Until, that is, when Molly started using her teeth.

“Fuck!” Janine arched her back as Molly all but attacked her breasts with sucking, biting marks. “Damn, you’re a fast learner.”

“Always have been,” Molly hummed against Janine’s heart. “Anything you want to ask me?”

Janine didn’t give in, though, which was fine by Molly because she was starting to get addicted to the sounds Janine was making—shaky gasps and full-throated moans, squirming underneath her, trying to fight.

Finally, right when Molly thought about taking pity, Janine’s eyes went wild.

“Please, Molly. Please let me go, I need to touch you—”

Molly released her, and Janine sat bolt upright. She didn’t flip them—instead, she tugged Molly towards her and slipped her thigh between Molly’s legs. Molly mirrored her instinctively, and gasped when she felt how wet Janine was.

Janine rocked against Molly’s thigh, pulling her closer until they could wrap their arms around each other. “Just like this, Molls. Come on, come on…”

Molly stopped thinking and let herself  move . Holding onto Janine, she rocked and moved and kissed wherever she could reach, her hands moving desperately against Janine’s back. She couldn’t hear or see or taste or touch or smell anything except for Janine, and it had never been like this, so close that they actually felt like one…

Then Janine threw her head back. “Molly!”

And that was it, Molly was coming, and she was clinging to Janine as tight as she could, and she couldn’t stop moving. She never wanted to stop…

But of course, they had to. They disentangled themselves carefully from each other and lay back down in their original position. Molly couldn’t bring herself to care about the sweat and the damp; she just cuddled close to Janine in silence. Janine ran her fingers through Molly’s hair.

“That was amazing,” Molly said. “Is it meant to be like that?”

Janine laughed. “I don’t know, my darling. It should be. Why would anyone settle for less?”

Molly tucked her face into Janine’s neck. “I love you. I really do.”

“I really love you too,” Janine answered with a happy sigh. She kissed the side of Molly’s head. “And not just because you’ve got a fantastic mouth.”

Molly blushed. “That’s one thing I’ve always been good at.”

“I tend to be better with my hands,” Janine mused. “How about this—you teach me all your tricks, and I’ll teach you mine?”

“Privileged information, of course.”

“You’re the only one who gets to know,” Janine confirmed. “I don’t ever want to show anyone else, anyways.”

“Neither do I.”

They hadn’t spoken about marriage, not really. Just of the future, a future that was so hypothetical only a few days ago. But that was when Molly realized that she was absolutely going to propose to Janine. And they would be together for the rest of their lives, and whatever came afterwards. It was also the first moment that Molly knew that Janine would say yes.

She felt herself starting to cry, and bit her lip to stop. But Janine gently stroked her hair and whispered, “it’s okay, Molls.”

“I’ve never felt this safe,” Molly sobbed.

“I haven’t in a long time either,” Janine whispered. And when Molly looked up, she saw that Janine was crying too.

They held each other until the tears stopped, then got themselves up. Janine stretched, gloriously tall and naked, and Molly had never seen anything so beautiful.

“Right, we need to eat food,” Janine said firmly. “As much as staying in bed would be delightful, I’m afraid that I might faint on top of you, and that wouldn’t be very romantic, would it?”

Molly got up. “I’ll change off the quilt, too.”

Reluctantly they both put on dressing gowns. Molly swapped out the blanket and they ate sandwiches as quickly as they could without choking. The view from the kitchen of the late afternoon sun peeking out and dancing on the waves was almost enough to distract Molly from dragging Janine back to the bedroom.

Almost. Not quite. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this makes sense--like I said before I'm new to writing explicit scenes, so I just kind of went from the heart.   
Tomorrow is Johnlockary's turn, so stay tuned for the finale of the trilogy in this story of 'Acme-writes-smut-for-the-first-time'.   
Cheers,  
Acme


	42. Three Love (Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several weeks after Rachel is born, Sherlock, John, and Mary have their first night together.

The three of them stood together in the room. Rachel was with her godfathers, Mrs. Hudson was out with her friends, and the building was quiet.

And they didn’t have the slightest clue about what to do next, Sherlock realized. They were all adults, none of them were virgins, for fuck’s sake, but this was…this was new.

“I think we should all get naked,” Mary said without any dithering. “There’s a lot of new things tonight, and we might as well get that bit over with.”

So they took off their clothes. Sherlock folded his neatly; it gave him something to do with his hands and his eyes. It hit him, really, that this was the first time he would see Mary naked, and the first time he saw John completely naked.

Mary was unexpectedly beautiful—desire in any case was still new for Sherlock, but naked women had never really been his style. She was lovely though—she was flushed to her navel, her breasts tipped with large round brown nipples. Her legs were the most distracting part of her, the stretch marks from pregnancy reaching up to her belly and outlining soft curves and elegant bone structure.

Alright, his observations could be slightly less clinical, but this was how he saw people. And it certainly didn’t take away from the rush of heat he felt through his body.

Then he looked at John, and he actually felt his heart skip a beat. Funny how he’d always thought of that as a cliche that couldn’t happen in an actual body.

He’d seen John shirtless before, walking around in nothing but boxers because physical shyness had never been a problem at their flat (except when Mrs. Hudson walked in on a hot day and John couldn’t look her in the face for several weeks). But this wasn’t John walking around their flat. This was John about to be in bed with him and Mary. Sherlock was allowed to look differently. To observe differently.

John’s muscles were still well defined for a man his age, and his body looked strong, every part of it. But for the first time Sherlock noticed freckles on John’s chest; the scars on his shoulder formed a pattern that made John tense but Sherlock was so, so grateful for them because it meant that John was alive; the trail of hair on his stomach that led down to a well-trimmed patch of hair around his cock.

Sherlock looked up and saw John looking at him, lips parted and pupils dilated.

“John?”

“You’re beautiful,” John said hoarsely. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“You really are,” Mary said. She stepped closer and put her hands on Sherlock’s chest. “Oh, love…”

Sherlock bent to kiss her, trembling as her hands explored his chest. Then there were other hands in his hair, and Mary leaned away so John could take her place. Sherlock kept hold of Mary, but only just as John devoured his mouth, the sudden passion making him weak at the knees.

John and Mary drew him over to the bed, and Sherlock all but collapsed, leaning back on the bed and kissing John’s neck. Mary was behind John, draped over him and letting her hands roam between the two of them. John groaned out loud when she started to pinch his nipples.

“You’ve always liked that, haven’t you darling?” Mary soothed. “Go on, Sherlock. Try it.”

Sherlock let Mary guide his hands to John’s chest, and looked to him for confirmation. John just nodded.

Sherlock pinched experimentally and John actually cried out.

“Sorry!” Sherlock said quickly. “Too much?”

“No,” John panted. “Sherlock, don’t  stop.”

Well then.

Mary chuckled as Sherlock continued to pinch and roll John’s nipples, sliding down on her side so she could watch. “What a gorgeous picture you two make,” she crooned. “Oh darling, that feels good, doesn’t it?”

Curious, Sherlock leaned forward and ran his tongue over John’s nipple.

“Fuck!” John’s hands were suddenly in Sherlock’s hair, tugging firmly. Sherlock gasped. God, that felt  good .

He kept teasing John for a few more moments, then pulled away. “John, I think you should teach me something about Mary,” he said, his voice much hoarser than he’d thought.

John was panting, his cock a hard line against Sherlock’s thigh. But he still grinned and reached for Mary. “The thing you need to know about Mary,” he said, “is that she really likes teeth.”

“Oh fuck you,” Mary swore.

John just slid down her body until he could place his mouth on her left hipbone. “Maybe later,” he teased. Then he was tracing the bone with teeth and tongue. Sherlock shot a quick look at John—because even though they were all in bed together he still wanted to check, to make sure that he wasn’t crossing a line of any kind—and then pinned Mary’s shoulders to the bed. Then he went for her neck.

Mary, it turned out, swore a lot in bed. At first Sherlock wasn’t sure if she was actually enjoying herself, but when he pulled away she told him “to get the fuck back here and mark me like you mean it!” Sherlock obeyed easily, because the feeling of her writhing between him and John, her speech becoming more and more incoherent as they traced and marked more of her skin, was incredible.

Sherlock knew he was hard, knew John was too, and when he traced an experimental hand between Mary’s legs, he could feel that she was wet.

“I think we need—to take a breath,” he panted out.

John and Mary immediately turned their heads towards him as he sat up, keeping one hand on each of them, trying to stay grounded.

“Of course, love,” John said gently. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes—yes.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “I only thought—neither of us are young, John. I just wondered if penetration was still on the table, because if it is then I think we ought to move to that stage of things.”

John just grinned at him. “My dear,” he whispered, putting a hand to Sherlock’s face. “My Sherlock.”

“Penetration will not be on the table, but it certainly can be on the bed,” Mary said. Her hair was damp with sweat, love bites spread over her chest and hips and thighs. She looked wrecked. She looked gorgeous.

Sherlock hesitated, considering their options. This wouldn’t be the last night they were together like this, he knew that, but he still wanted to make the right choice for tonight. He wanted it to mean something; the way they laid together, who was where, it would be significant. They could always experiment another time...

John looked between the two of them. “If no one’s got any objections, could I be in the middle?”

Mary beamed. “That’s alright by me. You’ll be on the other side then, Sherlock? I couldn't find our strap-on, but if you want—”

“No, that’s—” Sherlock cleared his throat. “That’s fine.”

“It’s all fine,” John replied. He kissed Sherlock, those old familiar words settling around them. Their pasts were complicated, but they’d led to this moment in this bed, and Sherlock wouldn’t change anything even if he could.

Sherlock laid on his side as John stretched for a bottle on the dresser. Lubricant, of course. Sherlock reached to take it from him, but to his surprise John poured some onto his own fingers and rubbed against Mary’s sex.

“I need it most of the time,” Mary said. She gasped as John started to kiss her neck, slipping one of his fingers inside her. “I don’t get wet enough to stop it hurting, no matter how many times I’ve come. Sorry-”

“What the hell are you apologizing for? That’s your body, that’s  fine .” Sherlock put his arm over John, letting his fingers move around John’s, and Mary stopped talking.

Sherlock thought that John might start to fuck Mary first, before he was prepared, but instead John looked over his shoulder. “Sher, do you—I mean, I could do it, if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock kissed John’s scarred shoulder. “Oh, I want to,” he whispered. “You keep our lady entertained.”

It was pleasant to watch John shiver as Mary passed over the bottle. Sherlock ran a hand down John’s back before he opened the bottle again, slicking his fingers up carefully. He’d done this to himself, once or twice, but this was  John.  There was so much to learn here about what John wanted, how he would respond, and…he wanted to get this right.

John and Mary were kissing, and Sherlock didn’t really want to interrupt. He ran his dry hand down John’s back again, only this time he didn’t stop at the small of his back. He continued down until the tips of his fingers traced down the line of John’s crack. John groaned, pressing back into the touch, and Sherlock swallowed hard. He  liked  that. For a moment he wondered what it would be like if he and Mary worked together to tease John into a frenzy, until he could hardly speak to beg. It was an intriguing idea, but Sherlock pushed it away.  Not tonight. We don’t have to do everything tonight.

He couldn’t resist teasing John a little bit, rubbing circles around his hole until John pulled away from Mary with a gasp. “Fucking  hell,  Sherlock! Please!”

“Of course,” Sherlock said calmly, like that  please wasn’t making him come undone in the best possible ways. He gently pressed his finger in, waiting for John to adjust before pressing deeper.

John moaned. “Yes, there we go. Fuck!”

“He loves this,” Mary crooned, her hands moving over John’s body, her touch too light to be satisfying. “He loves to get fucked, don’t you darling? It’s like he was  made  for it.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop the groan that slipped past his lips as he kept his finger moving, sliding in another and stretching experimentally.

Despite John’s pleadings, Sherlock still took his time. He needed the data—he needed to know that scissoring his fingers made John kiss Mary desperately, that the tightness around his fingers softened when Sherlock pressed his lips along John’s shoulder blades…

And, apparently, when he found John’s prostate, that all it took was one firm press and John was begging.

“Fuck, Sherlock, get in me, please, I’m not—I can’t wait—”

“You need to be ready,” Sherlock protested. He was starting to have fun, too, and he rubbed against John’s prostate until his lover went incoherent, clutching onto Mary and him at the same time.

“Please…”

Sherlock felt the stretch he’d achieved, and looked at his own cock. Well, it should work well enough. He kissed the back of John’s neck. “Alright, dear,” he soothed. “Alright.”

He was generous with the lubricant as he coated his cock, hand shaking as he touched himself. He’d never felt like this before—so in tune with his own body and its needs. And right now, he needed to be inside John.

“John, do you want to be in Mary first, or—”

“You’d better go first,” Mary interrupted. Her eyes were blown, staring at the two of them. “I want to feel you fuck him into me.”

“As you command,” Sherlock said, mouth dry. He met her eyes, and was shocked by how much love there was in them. It was a love he’d only seen directed at John, even in the last few months. This was raw and real. Really happening.

Raw…

“I need—I forgot about protection.”

“I’m clean,” John said. He was trembling with the effort of holding his body still. “And I got the operation. There’s no need.”

Relieved, Sherlock didn’t waste any more time, and slowly started to slide into John.

John was tight,  so  tight and hot around him, but John clearly knew how to take him, because he relaxed and breathed through the stretch until Sherlock was fully inside him. Sherlock was trembling, trying to catch his breath as he leaned his forehead against John’s shoulder.

“He feels good, doesn’t he?” Mary said approvingly. “I can’t feel him the same way you can, but it’s tremendous all the same.” She kissed Sherlock, then lay back down. “Alright, John. When you’re ready.”

Sherlock felt John’s body shift as he entered Mary. It made him want to thrust and own and claim, but he had to be gentle. So he waited until John went still again, and then he started to move.

That was when Sherlock started to get truly overwhelmed. For what felt like hours but couldn’t have been, it felt like they were the only three people left in the world, and all that mattered was moving together, shifting John a couple of times until he found the best angle, holding Mary’s hand, leaving kisses all over John’s scars, like that would soothe them away for good, and pleasure building in him, his body going hot and tight, trembling because it couldn’t possibly feel this good…and then it got  better …

Mary keened, tossing her head back and clutching at Sherlock’s hand as she came. John shuddered, and the way his body moved felt so right—John should always feel this good, be this happy—and Sherlock lost control, pushing for that same high to hit John…and then John sighed as he came.

It only took a few more thrusts for Sherlock to come too. He’d never had sex without a condom before, and the sensation would have felt messy and pointless before. Now it made Sherlock tremble all the more.

Sherlock carefully moved out of John, still shaking as he leaned back against the pillows, breathing hard.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” Mary asked. She was staring at him (calling him darling, as she’d started doing only after they brought Rachel home, and it still felt so nice), and Sherlock blinked, surprised. He wasn’t injured, he’d just had an orgasm, why—

Oh. He was crying. Sherlock put a hand to his face, startled by how wet his cheeks already were. “I—nothing’s wrong,” he tried to reassure her. “I’m just—” he could obfuscate, he could dance around it, but he felt too vulnerable to even try and lie. “It’s never felt like this. Not ever.”

John rolled to face him and pulled him into his chest. Sherlock tucked his face into John’s neck. In bed they were face to face, but that seemed too intense for right now. John seemed to understand, because he didn’t say anything, just ran his fingers through Sherlock’s damp curls. Mary entwined their fingers again, letting their hands rest on John’s back.

“By the time I finished university, I’d lost my virginity,” Sherlock said, once his breathing was under control and he’d mostly stopped crying. “I was stupid and I experimented and I didn’t look for love. I didn’t want it, so I never had it. But after then, the world stopped being safe.” All those nights, high enough to want to be normal, sober enough to know that safe sex was the only option to keep him from losing everything. “I’ve done it before for cases, I can apparently seduce people well enough, but it’s never been like this. I never thought I could have this.”

“What exactly did you think you couldn’t have?” Mary asked.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to her hand, pulling away enough to l ook at them both. “I never thought being out of control would ever feel good,” he answered. The tears were finally starting to slow. “I never let myself get out of control once I figured out how. I needed to be able to think, to solve. But I didn’t think about that this time, I just…felt. And I wasn’t in control, and it was okay.”

“I know what you mean,” Mary said, and Sherlock knew she did.

Once his tears had truly, finally stopped, Sherlock disentangled himself from John, ignoring the grunt of complaint as he walked to the toilet and took down their box of cloths. It took only a few moments to get them warm but not too wet, and Sherlock returned to the bedroom.

He gently wiped at first Mary, then John, then himself, removing the most obvious traces of saliva and ejaculate. John winced when Sherlock wiped at his hole, and Sherlock stopped instantly.

“Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m just still sensitive.” John held himself still as Sherlock finished, and relaxed once the cloth was taken away.

“It’s a good way to get him going again,” Mary observed. She’d stretched out, looking satisfied and sleepy. “But I think right now we ought to sleep.”

“Of course.” Sherlock got up, but John grabbed his hand. “Where are you going now, love?”

“To get pajamas for all of us.”

John shook his head. He shooed a reluctant Mary to her feet, peeled off the sheet from the bed to reveal a nearly-clean one underneath, then settled both Sherlock and Mary back down. He climbed back in behind Sherlock, yanked the quilt up over their shoulders, wrapped his arms around Sherlock, and sighed. “No clothes. G’night.”

Mary was facing Sherlock, and she smiled at him. “He gets bossy sometimes, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” Sherlock murmured. “Perhaps he needs to be taken down a peg or two?”

Mary kissed him. “In the morning, darling. Sleep now.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, and tried to obey. But there was a problem.

“John?”

“What?” It was barely more than a grunt.

“You left the light on.”

“You get it.”

“I can’t, you’ve got me squished between you and Mary.”

John grumbled again. He leaned away and then Sherlock saw his shoe go flying through the air, somehow knocking the light switch off.

“How on earth did you—”

“Practice. Sleep now. Love you Mary. Love you Sherlock.”

“I love you too,” Sherlock replied. He drew Mary closer to him, and she came willingly, resting her head on his shoulder. “Love you both.”

“My Baker Street Boys,” Mary murmured back. “Sleep well, my loves.”

And they did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnd that's it, no more sex scenes in this story. And it's the penultimate scene, too--the last chapter comes out tomorrow! And it's only tonight that I realized that I didn't actually write the last three paragraphs...oh well, it shall be done!  
Cheers,  
Acme


	43. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into seven months after the pool, an unremarkable milestone because what's far more important is the discussion of kittens, chip and pin machines, and a dinner party for the Baker Street Irregulars.

Rachel Martha Victoria Watson-Holmes crawled determinedly after her kitty. Bap wasn’t much faster than the seven-month-old, but Rachel had given it a head start, waiting patiently for Daddy to start her off.

Janine watched proudly as Rachel caught up to Bap and picked her up, heedless of the robot’s still-moving legs. “Bap!” She grinned at Janine and held Bap up. “Bap!”

“I see, sweetheart. Very well done.” Janine grinned at John, sitting on the other end of the couch. “And you and Mary were worried.”

“She’s going to want the real thing soon enough,” John pointed out. “She’s already got her eye on Redbeard.”

Toby had ended up fathering three kittens. Percy and Annie had kept the oldest, a white one they named Duchess, and Janine and Molly had the other two kittens. They were keeping Redbeard for the Watson-Holmes’ until Rachel was eight months old (it was a silly, arbitrary number, but Janine didn’t mind), but Pevensie was hers and Molly’s. Greg and Mycroft refused point blank to take any of the cats, but Janine was fairly sure that Sherlock was buying them a fish tank full of fish for Greg’s birthday.

“She can have Redbeard very soon, and he’ll be very well behaved. He already adores her.”

“I know.” John gently picked Rachel up and set her in his lap. “It’ll just be another change. I’m still not used to changes being good.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Janine moved closer so she could run a hand through Rachel’s unruly dark curls. One of them caught on her engagement ring. “Oh, sorry darling!”

But Rachel didn’t cry, just looked at her patiently while Janine freed her hand. Sometimes it was uncanny how much she looked like Sherlock, despite him having no genetic connection.

“She watches him a lot,” John said, guessing her train of thought. He was getting much better at that. “And Mary’s smart like him too. We’re raising another genius, I suppose.”

“Probably,” Janine agreed. “But she’s your daughter too, and look at her godmothers and—well, one of her godfathers. She’ll turn out ordinary too.”

“Oh really?” John’s eyes twinkled.

“Very much, true blue ordinary,” Janine smiled. “And thank goodness for that.”

“Just don’t teach her how to hide knives in her bra.”

“Of course not! I’ll leave that for her Mummy. Speaking of which, where on Earth are your lovers and mine?”

“I asked them to pick up groceries,” John reminded her. “They ran into Greg and Mycroft. And I’ve passed my chip-and-PIN curse onto Sherlock. They might be a while.”

Janine rolled her eyes.

Thankfully it was only a few minutes later the downstairs door opened, and there was a hubbub of voices, all of them sounding a touch frustrated but a good deal more amused. Sherlock entered the room first, his arms full of takeaway.

“Don’t ask about the groceries, love,” he told John as he dropped the bags onto the new table, big enough for eight and a high chair. Any irritation on his face vanished when Rachel dropped Bap to hold her arms out for him. “Come here, sweetheart. Da’s missed you!”

“You were gone for four hours.”

“And you were gone for four days and wouldn’t let Rachel out of your sight for a full day,” Molly said, breezing through the door with more takeaway and her coat undone. She dropped a kiss on Janine’s head before she put her bags next to Sherlock’s.

“Well…yes. And no one’s gonna blame me for that, because it’s Rachel.”

Mycroft and Greg were setting up the meal, and Janine got up to help. John stayed on the sofa, content to watch for a moment.

This was the first time they were all in the same place in months. Janine’s new job for Mycroft meant a fair bit of travel, and Molly went with her. Greg’s job at the Yard hadn’t gotten any slower, and Mycroft was still busy running the Commonwealth. Mary was working from home writing her own blog about being in a poly relationship and being a mum (she got more hits than John and wrote faster than Sherlock), and…well, there were always cases in London for consulting detectives, even now that they were fathers and did much more armchair detecting. Irene and Kate were going to drop in a bit later, busy with their own clients.

No, John reflected as he heard Mrs. Hudson’s tread on the stairs, coming up from visiting her old friends and their kid. No, they weren’t all together often. But they still called and used the group chat (and never changed the names) and they visited whenever they could.

And if 221b Baker Street saw them irregularly…well, that just made these nights even more special.

(Especially because someone else would help with the washing up). 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all done! Thanks for sticking with this story through the ups and downs of posting schedules. This was a big project and I did some things I've never done before (like the smut), so I'm happy to accept constructive criticism. I hope you enjoyed the journey as much as I did.  
Cheers,  
Acme


End file.
